V 


THE 


ANGEL   OF   THE  HOUSEHOLD, 


u 


BY  T,  S,  ARTHUIL 


PHILADELPHIA: 

!    J.  W.  BRADLEY,  48  X.  FOURTH  STREET 
1860. 


r 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 
J.    W.    BRADLEY,, 

In  the  Clerk's  (XVP  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and 
foi     «  Eastern  District  of  Pennsylvania. 


PHILADELPHIA  I 
nil       D  BY  KIX8  &  BATED, 
AJUOM  iTRUT. 


PREFACE. 

IN  the  "  Golden  Age,"  angels  were  the  companions  uf 
men,  holding  their  spirits  in  immediate  relationship  with 
heaven.  But,  as  the  gold  of  celestial  innocence  became 
dimmed  by  the  breath  of  self-love — the  parent  of  all 
evil — angels  receded ;  and  farther  and  farther  they  re- 
moved themselves,  as  men  darkened  their  spirits  with 
sin,  until  even  a  perception  of  their  existence  faded  from 
the  mind. 

As  it  was  in  the  "  Golden  Age"  of  the  world,  so  is  it 
in  the  first,  or  "Golden  Age"  of  each  individual  life, 
when  the  innocence  of  infancy  finds  angel-companionship,     j 
Whoever  holds  a  babe  to  her  bosom,  and  holds  it  there     1 
lovingly,  comes  within  the  sphere  of  angelic  influences;     \ 
for,  with  infants  and  little  children,  angels  are  intimately 
near.     This  is  seen  in  the  tender  love  that  fills  the  heart 
of  even  a  wicked  mother,  when  she  clasps  her  helpless     •! 
offspring  in  her  arms — a  love  flowing  forth  from  Heaven,     j; 
and  breathed  into  her  spirit  by  the  angels  who  are  with     <; 
her  babe. 

Into  -every  household  angels  may  enter.  They  come  |> 
in  through  the  gate  of  infancy,  and  bring  with  them  cc-  '/ 
lestial  influences.  Are  there  angels  in  your  household  ?  \, 
If  so,  cherish  the  heavenly  visitants. 


2052374 


THE 


ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  BEDLAM  let  loose  I"  exclaimed  Mr.  Harding,  pas- 
sionately, as  he  started  up  from  the  corner,  near  the 
fire,  where  he  had  been  sitting  moodily  since  supper- 
time.  "  Silence  !  or  I'll  break  some  of  your  bones  !" 

The  children,  who  had  been  wrangling,  suddenly 
ceased  their  noisy  strife,  and  shrunk  back  from  their 
angry  father,  who,  advancing  toward  them,  seemed  half 
inclined  to  put  his  rough  threat  into  execution. 

"There,  now!  don't  talk  and  act  like  a  savage  I" 
sharply  ejaculated  the  wife  and  mother,  throwing  from 
her  coal-black  eyes  a  scornful  glance  upon  her  husband. 
"  If  I  couldn't  speak  to  children  in  a  better  way  than 
that,  I'd  not  speak  at  all." 

We  will  not  put  on  record  the  brutal  retort  of  Jacob 
Harding,  as  he  almost  flung  himself  from  the  room; 
throwing  over,  in  his  mad  haste,  little  Lotty,  the  youngest 
member  of  his  unpromising  flock,  who  happened  to  be  in 
his  way.  The  loud  slamming  of  the  door,  and  the  wild 
screaming  of  the  child,  mingled  for  the  excited  mother's 
ears  their  sounds  discordant. 

r 


8  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


"  He'd  better  break  my  bones  !"  said  the  oldost  boy, 
Andrew,  in  looks  and  attitude  the  picture  of  defiance. 
"  I'd  just  like  to  see  him  try  it." 

"  Hush  this  instant,  you  little  vagabond !  How  dare 
you  speak  so  of  your  father  ?" 

"  I  don't  care !  He's  not  going  to  break  my  bones/' 
And  the  young  rebel,  not  over  eight  years  of  age,  drew 

{  himself  up,  while  his  eyes,  4ilack  as  his  mother's,  flashed 
with  boyish  indignation. 

"  If  you  say  that  again,  I'll  box  your  ears  off !"  And 
Mrs.  Harding  took  two  long  strides  toward  the  lad,  who, 
knowing  something  about  the  weight  of  her  hand,  shrunk, 

>  muttering,  away,  and  contented  himself  with  thinking  all 
manner  of  rebellious  things,  and  purposing  all  kinds  of 

]     disobedience. 

For  a  few  minutes,  after  Lotty  ceased  crying,  there  was 
silence  in  the  room ;  not  a  pleasant,  but  a  gloomy,  forced 
silence.  Then  Lucy,  six  years  old,  and  Philip,  between 
four  and  five,  who  had  been  frightened  from  their  play 
by  the  scene  just  described,  drew  together  once  more, 

\  and  commenced  rebuilding  a  block  house,  which  Andrew 
had  wantonly  thrown  down.  Their  work,  as  it  again  pro- 

J     gressed,  this  bad  boy  watched  with  an  evil  eye,  and,  just 

*t  as  it  was  near  completion,  wantonly  swept  again  the  fabric 
into  ruins.  Unable  to  control  their  indignation  at  this 
second  unprovoked  violation  of  their  rights,  the  outraged 

/     brother  and  sister,  as  if  moved  by  a  single  impulse,  threw 

t  themselves  upon  Andrew,  and  with  fists,  nails,  and  teeth, 
sought  to  do  him  all  the  injury  in  their  power.  Fierce 
was  the  struggle,  and  long  would  it  have  continued,  but 

<  for  the  mother's  interference.  She  did  not  stop  to  sepa- 
rate them,  but,  with  her  open  hand,  dealt  each  &uch 
rapid  and  vigorous  blows  about  the  head  and  ears,  that 
they  were  soon  glad  to  retreat,  crying  with  pain,  into 
opposite  parts  of  the  room. 

"Now,  off  to  bed  with  you  this  instant!"  exclaimed 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  9 


the  angry  mother,  "  and  if  I  hear  a  word  between  you, 
I'll  come  up  with  a  switch  and  cut  you  half  to  pieces." 

Andrew,  Lucy,  and  Philip  glided  from  the  room, 
keeping  silent  through  fear,  for  they  understood  their 
mother's  present  mood  well  enough  to  know  that  it 
would  be  dangerous  to  provoke  her  further. 

"  Come !  let  me  undress  you,"  said  Mrs.  Harding  to 
Lotty.  There  was  nothing  gentle,  nothing  of  motherly 
love  in  the  tones  of  her  voice.  The  waters  of  her  spirit 
were  agitated  by  a  storm,  and  the  sky  above  them  was 
dark. 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,"  answered  the  child, 
fretfully. 

"  Come  here  this  instant,  I  say !"  cried  the  mother, 
with  threatening  look  and  tone. 

"'I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,"  repeated  Lotty. 
"  D'ye  hear  ?     Come  this  minute  !" 
But  the  child,  instead  of  obeying  her  mother,  shrunk 
>    away  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room. 

"  If  I  have  to  come  to  you,  miss,  you'll  be  sorry ; 
<;    now,  mind !" 

Most  children  would  have  been  frightened  at  the  dark, 

\    threatening  eyes  that  almost  flashed  with  cruelty;  but 

\    Lotty  was  self-willed,  and  strong  to  endure,  though  but 

I    a  child.     She  inherited  a  large  portion  of  her  mother's 

;    peculiar  spirit.     Instead  of  yielding  to  this  threat,  she 

;    crouched  down  in  the  corner,  and  cast  back  at  her  mother 

|    a  look  of  defiance.     Mrs.  Harding  was  in  no  mood  for  a 

\    long  parley.     There  were  times  when  the  mother  in  her 

\    was  strong ;  and  then,  for  the  sake  of  her  wayward,  self- 

'    willed  child,  she  would  patiently  strive  with  her,  and  use 

\    all  gentler  efforts  to  bend  her  to  obedience.     But  now 

the  mother  had  given  place  to  the  passionate  woman.    It 

was  one  of  her  hours  of  darkness,  when  all  the  evil  of  her 

perverse  nature  had  sway.     A  few  moments  she  fixed 

•;    tier  eyes  upon  those  of  Lotty,  throwing  into  them,  as  sha 


•C-W-'Nlt 


r 


10        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


did  so,  a  fiercer  light ;  but  this  failing  to  intimidate  the 
btubborn  child,  all  patience  gave  way,  and  she  darted 
toward  her  with  something  like  a  tiger's  spring.  Seizing 
the  still  resisting  little  one,  Mrs.  Harding  jerked  her 
from  the  corner  into  which  she  had  retreated,  and  as  she 
lifted  her  up  into  the  air,  struck  her  three  or  four  hard 
blows  in  quick  succession. 

Did  Lotty  lie  still  now  in  her  arms,  or  stand  passively 
by  her  side  ?     Not  so.     The  spirit  of  rebellion  was  like 
a  young  giant  in  her  heart,  and  blows  only  quickened 
this  spirit  into  more  vigorous  life.     The  child  screamed 
and  struggled,  and  even  struck  her  mother  in  the  face. 
Such  resistance  to   her  will   only  made  Mrs.  Harding 
^     blindly  resolute.     More  smarting  and  longer  continued 
!>     blows  were  returned,  and  to  these  was  added  such  a  mad 
s     shaking  of  the.  child,  as  she  held  her  out  with  both  hands 
in  the  air,  that  Lotty,  losing  her  breath,  became  fright- 
\     ened,  and  ceased  her  struggles. 

"I'll  break  that  stubborn  spirit  of  yours,  if  I  kill 
you  !"  said  the  mother,  with  cruel  triumph  in  her  tones,     i 
as  she  set  Lotty  down  upon  the  floor  heavily.      With     ; 
impatient  hands  the  garments  were  almost  torn  from  the    ? 
little  one's  body,  and  replaced  by  her  night-gown.    Then,     s 
without  an  evening  prayer,  a  kiss,  or  a  kind  good-night, 
she  was  placed  in  bed ;  her  only  benediction  an  almost     / 
savage  threat  of  consequences,  should  a  single  word  pass    •; 
her  lips. 

All  was  silent  now  in  the  house.  The  older  children 
had  fallen  quickly  to  sleep,  and  Lotty,  subdued  by  the 
power  of  fear,  restrained  the  rebel  cries  that  were  almost 
bursting  her  heart  for  utterance.  She,  too,  soon  passes 
into  the  world  of  dreams.  Was  it  a  beautiful  world  to 
her,  poor  child  ?  or  did  haunting  images,  terrible  in 
shape,  follow  her  there  from  the  real  world  in  which  she 
daily  struggled  and  suffered  ? 

Alone,  with  not  a  sound  on  the  air  but  an  occasional 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        11 


Bob  from  Lotty,  the  tumult  of  whose  feelings  even  sleep 
had  not  entirely  subdued,  Mrs.  Harding's  state  of  mind 
underwent  a  gradual  transition.  There  are  few  in  whose 
spirit  subsiding  anger  does  not  leave  its  debris  of  »ad 
emotions,  or  painful  self-condemnation.  It  had  ever 
been  so  in  the  case  of  Mrs.  Harding,  yet  had  she  not 
seemed  to  grow  wiser  by  suffering.  With  every  new 
cause  of  excitement,  her  quick  temper  fired  up  and 
burned  its  little  hour  fiercely ;  and,  ever  as  the  fire  died 
/  out,  her  spirit  felt  colder  than  before,  and  groped  sadly 

<  in  a  deeper  darkness.     And  it  was  so  again.     How  re- 
>    bukingly  upon  this  state  came,  now  in  a  single  deep 

sigh,  and  now  in  fluttering  sobs,  the  grief  of  her  self- 
willed  child,  prolonged  even  into  slumber.  So  painful 
was  this  sound  at  length,  that  Mrs.  Harding  went  softly 
and  closed  the  door  that  opened  into  the  room  where 
Lotty  was  sleeping.  But,  through  the  shut  door,  came, 
ever  and  anon,  the  sigh  or  sob.  each  time  smiting  her  ear 
'(  sadly,  and  adding  to  the  gloomy  depression  from  which 

<  she  was  now  suffering.     Nor  was  this  the  only  cause  of 
£    self-upbraiding.     She  was  alone,  and  why  ?     Sharp,  in- 
j;    suiting  words,  striking  on  the  ears  of  her  impatient  hus- 
!    band,   had   driven   him,  as  the  same  cause  had  before, 
,>    times  without  number,  from  home,  to  spend  his  evenings 
4    at  the  tavern,  among  scenes  and  associates  of  a  degrading 

character.  Ah !  how  often  and  often  had  the  unhappy 
wife,  as  she  sat  through  the  lonely  evening  hours,  wept 
far  the  absence  of  him  whom  her  blind  passion  had  driven 
forth — even  from  the  hearth  her  presence  might  have 
made  warm  and  attractive. 

Alus !  that  suffering  taught  not  this  ill-governed 
woman  its  lessons  of  wisdom.  That  remembered  anguish  ^ 
did  not  act  as  a  stimulus  to  self-control.  Ever  as  a  leaf  f> 
in  the  wind  was  she,  when  the  gust  of  passion  arose.  As  < 
it  had  been  with  her  many,  many  times,  so  was  it  now.  s 
She  was  too  unhappy  for  any  thincr  but  tears;  and  so,  > 


12  THE  ANGEL  OP  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


!>  letting  the  work  she  had  taken  up  fall  into  her  lap,  she 
\  drew  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  sat  idle,  weeping,  and 
;,'  miserable.  A  knock  on  the  door  disturbed  her  wretched 
mood.  It  was  night,  and  their  house  stood  at  some  dis- 
tance from  the  nearest  neighbour.  Mrs.  Harding  was  no 
timid  woman;  yet  this  summons  startled  her,  not  be- 
cause it  was  bold  and  imperative  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was 
low  and  hesitating. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

She  had  risen  up  quickly,  and  now  stood  in  a  t  jarken- 
ing  attitude. 

No  voice  replied,  but  the  same  singular  knock  was 
repeated. 

"  Who's  there,  I  say  ?" 

Sharp  though  her  tones  were,  a  slight  tremor  betrayed 
a  secret  fear. 

No  answer. 

"  Come  in." 

A  hand  was  on  the  door  knob.  It  seemed  like  the 
hand  of  a  child,  and  failed  in  the  apparent  effort  to  gain 
admittance.  Mrs.  Harding  distinctly  heard  the  rustle  of 
a  woman's  garments.  She  tried  to  repeat  the  words 
"Come  in;"  but  a  strange  fear  prevented  utterance. 
Almost  as  fixed  as  a  statue,  she  stood  gazing  at  the  door, 
which,  after  a  little  while,  swung  quietly  open.  Her 
eyes  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a  white  garment, 
and  then  she  looked  vainly  into  the  deep  darkness 
There  was  no  form  visible. 

"Who's  there?"  she  cried,  after  a  brief  pause;  but 
eilence  was  the  only  answer. 

As  she  still  gazed  through  the  open  door,  her  eyes, 
penetrating  farther  into  the  gloomy  vail  of  night,  saw. 
dimly  an  object  on  the  ground.  Advancing  across  the 
room  a  few  steps,  she  was  able  to  perceive  distinctly 
that  this  object  wis  i  large  basket,  covered  with  a  cloth, 

"  Who's  then-  ?     What's  wanted  ?" 


I 

THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        13 


Again  she  sought  an  answer;  but  no  response  came 
Boldly  now  she  stepped  to  the  door,  and  bending  her 
body  out,  ptered  farther  into  the  darkness;  but  there 
was  no  movement  nor  sound  that  indicated  the  presence 
of  friend  or  stranger.  Close  by  the  door-step  stood  the 
basket.  She  stretched  forth  a  hand,  and  made  an  effort 
to  raise  it  from  the  ground ;  but  to  do  this  required  the 
exercise  of  considerable  strength. 

"  This  is  strange  !  What  can  it  mean  ?"  said  she  to 
herself,  again  searching  with  her  eyes  into  the  surround- 
ing darkness. 

"Jacob!  Jacob!" 

A  thought  that  her  husband  might  have  brought  the 
basket,  flitting  across  her  mind,  prompted  her  to  call  his 
name. 

But  no  answer  came  back  upon  the  quiet  air,  that  bore 
her  voice  afar  off,  until  it  died  in  the  distance.  Why 
does  she  start  so  ?  A  low  smothered  cry,  like  that  of  an 
infant,  has  come  suddenly  upon  her  ear ;  from  whence, 
she  is  in  no  doubt,  for  already  she  has  lifted  the  basket, 
and  is  bearing  it  into  the  house. 

How  wildly  excited  was  the  countenance  of  Mrs.  Hard- 
ing, as  she  stooped  down,  and  with  unsteady  hand  re-  !; 
moved  the  white  napkin  that  covered  the  basket.  The  < 
sight  revealed  would  have  touched  a  harder  heart  than  ;> 
hers.  A  babe,  only  a  few  weeks  old,  lifted  to  hers  a  > 
pair  of  the  softest  blue  eyes  that  ever  reflected  the  light ;  ^ 
and  as  it  did  so,  fluttered  its  little  hands,  and  showed  all  s 
the  instinctive  eagerness  of  an  infant  to  be  clasped  to  a  / 
mother's  bosom 

Now,  with  all  the  hardness  and  passionate  self-will  of 
the  woman,  up  into  whose  face  this  helpless,  innocent  \ 
stranger  looked,  there  was  a  warm  chamber  in  her  heart,  \ 
over  the  door  of  which  was  written  "  mother ;"  and  the  \ 
hand  of  an  angel  opened  this  door  to  admit  the  babe  so  £ 
cruelly  abandoned.  Her  first  impulse  was  obeyed — that 

2  { 

-----i 


14        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD 


prompted  her  to  lift  the  child  quickly  from  the  basket, 
and  fold  it  in  her  arms.     A  sweet,  confiding  smile  played 
softly  around  its  lips ;  and  its  large,  beautiful  eyes  rested 
in  hers  with  an  expression  so  full  of  loving  confidence, 
that  she  felt  her  whole  bosom  warming  with  love,  and 
.;'     yearning  toward  it  with  inexpressible  tenderness.     The 
kiss  that  could  not  be  withheld  from  the  rosy  lips  that 
parted  to  receive  the  salutation,  was  the  kiss  of  a  mother. 
Ere  there  was  time  for  reflection  or  observation,  the 
\     babe  had  won  its  way  into  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Harding. 
The  door  still  remained  open  as  she  had  left  it  in  the  ex- 
!;     citement  incident  to  bearing  in  the  basket.     Mrs.  Hard- 
<;     ing,  now  aware  of  this,  arose,  still  holding  the  child  in 
her  arms,  and  crossed  the  room  to  shut  the  door.     Was 
|>     it  really  so ;  or  did  her  imagination  create  the  picture  ? 
J     Be  this  as  it  may,  just  in  the  dusky  extreme  of  the  circle 
l(     of  light  made  by  the  rays  pouring  out  from  her  lamp, 
she  saw  the  form  of  a  woman.     The  face  was  distinct, 
and  its  expression  never  to  be  forgotten.    It  was  a  young 
face,  very  sad,  very  full,  and  very  beautiful.     The  hands 
'      were  clasped  tightly  together,  and   the    figure    seemed 
bending  forward  eagerly.     For  a  moment  or  two  the 
vision  was  distinct;  then  it  faded  slowly,  and  the  eyes 
f.     of  3Ins.  Harding  saw  nothing  but  darkness 

Closing  the  door,  with  a  strange  feeling  about  her 
\  heart,  she  went  back  to  where  the  basket  stood  upon  the 
>  floor,  and,  seating  herself  beside  it,  the  babe  on  her  lap, 
<;  commenced  an  examination  into  its  contents,  with  the 
j  hope  of  gaining  some  light  on  the  mysterious  circum 
stance.  But  nothing  here  gave  her  the  least  clue  to  the 
parentage  of  the  child,  or  made  clear  the  reasons  for 
commuting  it  to  her  tender  mercies.  In  the  basket  were 
four  ur  five  full  changes  of  clothes,  most  of  them  made 
of  good,  but  not  very  fine  material,  except  the  white 
flannel  skirts,  which  were  soft  as  down,  and  of  the 
ehoic^st  quality.  These  were  no*  so  new  as  the  other 


THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


L 


articles.     No  letter  was  to  be  found  in  the  basket ;  nor 
did  it  contain  any  money. 

While  Mrs.  Harding  was  thus  seeking  for  all  possible 
light  in  regard  to  the  babe,  it  had  fallen  asleep  in  her 
Arms,  unconscious  that  any  great  change  had  taken  place 
in  its  fortunes  or  friends,  and  as  happy  in  its  slumbers  as 
when  it  nestled  on  its  mother's  bosom — if,  indeed,  it  had 
ever  known  that  blessed  privilege.  Perceiving  this,  and 
affected  with  a  new  tenderness  as  she  gazed  down  upon 
its  face — one  of  uncommon  sweetness,  even  for  a  babe — 
she  sat  for  many  minutes  with  her  eyes  upon  its  counte- 
nance. Her  gaze  seemed  held  there  as  if  by  a  kind  of 
fascination.  What  a  yearning  love  grew  up  in  her  heart, 
gaining  strength  every  moment !  She  wondered  at  her 
own  feelings. 

Rising  now,  and  holding  the  child  with  exceeding 
care,  she  passed  into  the  next  room — her  own  chamber, 
where  Lotty  was  sleeping — and  gently  laid  the  sweet  young 
stranger  in  her  bed.  Here  she  lingered  for  some  time, 
leaning  over  and  looking  upon  the  child.  Once  or  twice 
she  left  the  bed,  and  went  as  far  as  the  door,  purposing 
to  leave  the  chamber.  But  a  strange  attraction  drew  her 
to  the  babe  again  and  again,  and  each  time  it  seemed 
that  its  face  had  acquired  a  newer  beauty. 

At  last,  Mrs.  Harding  compelled  herself  to  leave  the 
apartment;  and  as  she  did  so,  she  closed  the  door  softly. 
Sitting  down  by  the  basket,  she  commenced  a  new  exa- 
mination of  its  contents.  This  was  as  fruitless  of  intelli- 
gence as  the  first.  Not  a  mark  nor  sign  was  there,  to  tell 
from  whence  the  infant  came. 

Half  an   hour   elapsed,  and    still    Mrs.  Harding   sat 
musing  over  the  basket,  her  mind  incapable  of  finding, 
for  the  present,  interest  in  any  thing  but  what  apper-     i> 
tained  to  the  babe. 

Thus  she  was  sitting,  when  the  heavy  tread  of  her 
husband  startled  her  into  painful  consciousness  of  coming 


16        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


trouble.  Jacob  had  never  been  very  fond  of  children — 
not  even  of  his  own,  toward  whom  he  had  shown  but 
little  tenderness.  That  he  would  manifest  only  ill-nature, 
perhaps  give  way  to  violent  passions  as  soon  as  he  learned 
that  a  strange  infant  had  been  left  at  his  door,  she  had 
too  good  reason  to  fear. 

He  came  in  roughly,  as  was  his  wont — shutting  the 
door  heavily  behind  him. 

"  Hush  I" 

Mrs.  Harding  raised  her  hand  involuntarily,  to  enjoin 
silence.     But  her  rude  husband  strode  noisily  across  the 
<;     floor,  heedless  of  her  warning. 

"  What's  that  ?"   he  said,  as  his  eyes  rested  on  the    5 
^     strange-looking  basket. 

"  You  would  hardly  guess,"  answered  Mrs.  Harding,    ; 


speaking  with  a  forced  pleasantness  of  tone,  very  unusual 
with  her  when  addressing  her  husband. 

"  I  shall  hardly  try,"  said  he,  gruffly. 

"  A  strange  thing  has  happened  to-night." 

The  voice  of  Mrs.  Harding  was  not  as  steady  as  she 
wished  it  to  be. 

"  How,  strange  ?  What  has  happened  ?  W'ho's  been 
here?" 

"  That  basket  was  left  at  our  door  to-night." 

«  By  whom  ?" 

"  I  cannot  tell." 

"  With  somebody's  cast-off  brat  in  it,  I  suppose,"  said 
Harding,  with  a  flush  of  anger  in  his  face,  for  now  he 
saw  the  baby  clothing  which  his  wife  had  taken  from  the 
basket  and  laid  on  the  table.  '  "  Is  it  so  ?" 

•The  flush  had  deepened  to  a  fiery  glow,  and  his  eyes 
burned  with  indignation. 

"  The  basket  contained  a  young  babe,"  said  Mrs. 
Harding  calmly,  and  with  a  mother's  tenderness  in  her 
voice ;  "  the  sweetest,  loveliest  babe  your  eyes  ever 
rested  upon." 


^w--**^---*. 


TUB  ANQEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        17 


"  Pshaw  !"  And  Harding  averted  his  face,  on  which 
was  a  look  of  supreme  contempt.  "  I'd  like  to  know," 
he  added,  menacingly,  "  who  has  dared  do  this  thing  !" 

"  That  we  are  not  likely  soon  to  know,"  said  Mr*. 
Harding.  "  The  basket  contained  only  infant  clothing." 

An  almost  savage  imprecation  leaped  from  the  tongue 
of  Jacob  Harding.  For  a  little  while  he  stormed  about 
the  room  like  a  madman.  Under  almost  any  other  cir- 
cumstances, his  conduct  would  have  kindled  up  in  the 
mind  of  his  wife  as  fierce  a  flame  as  that  which  burned 
in  his  own.  But  a  woman's  true  instincts  subdued  her 
passionate  nature,  usually  so  quick  to  gather  all  its 
forces  for  combat.  Silently  she  waited  for  the  fire  to 
burn  out  in  her  husband's  mind  for  want  of  fresh  fuel, 
that  she  well  knew  how  to  supply. 

"  It  is  such  a  sweet  baby/'  said  Mrs.  Harding,  in  as 
calm  a  voice  as  she  could  assume,  after  her  husband's 
fierce  indignation  had  in  a  measure  consumed  itself. 

"  Humph  !  sweet !"  How  the  selfish,  cruel  animal 
growled !  What  a  look  of  disgust  was  on  his  counte- 
nance— scarcely  human  in  its  expression  ! 

Harding  had  come  home  from  the  tavern,  ripe  for  a 
quarrel;  and  he  was  doing  all  in  his  power — impotent 
of  effect  so  far — to  raise  a  storm.  He  had  not  been 
drinking  much  :  only  enough  to  deaden  all  of  true  man- 
hood  that  he  possessed,  and  to  quicken  into  active  force 
tiie  evil  of  his  nature.  He  now  perceived  the  change  in 
his  wife,  and  at  once  divined  the  cause.  The  foundling 
had  won  its  way  into  her  heart,  and  she  was  already 
purposing  to  adopt  it  as  her  own.  The  thought  enraged 
him  anew. 

"  Where  is  the  brat  ?"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up  with 
a  fresh  burst  of  anger.  "  I'll  throw  it  out  of  doors  1" 

"  Better  replace  it  in  the  basket,  poor  thing  !"  answered 
Mrs.  Harding.  "  It  has  done  us  no  harm." 

'  Very  well.  Put  the  duds  back  into  the  basket,  and 
2» 


18        THI  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


the  child  with  them.     They  shan't  stay  in  my  house 
to-night  1" 

Conscious  that,  if  she  gained  over  her  husband  at  all, 
it  must  be  through  apparent  yielding,  rather  than  resist- 
ance to  his  will,  Mrs.  Harding  commenced  slowly  re- 
placing the  baby  clothes,  as  if  about  to  do  his  bidding. 
A  little  wondering  at  this  passive  acquiescence  on  the 
part  of  his  wife,  Harding  stood  looking  on  while  she  laid 
in  garment  after  garment. 

"  It  is  dark  out,  Jacob,  and  will  be  cold  before  morn-  \ 
ing.  And  then  the  dogs,  or  some  other  animal,  might  ; 
hurt  the  poor  helpless  thing." 

"  I  don't  care.  It  shan't  stay  in  my  house  to-night.  < 
I'll  teach  people  better  than  to  leave  their  brats  at  my  ' 
door— I  will 1" 

The  man's  stubborn  spirit  was  roused  by  the  remon-  I 
strance  of  his  wife. 

A  deep  sigh  heaved  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Handing,  as  she  ! 
bent  once  more  over  the  basket,  and,  to  gain  time,  made  t 
some  new  arrangement  of  the  baby  clothes. 

"  Don't  be  all  night  about  it !"  growled  the  savage. 

Mrs.  Harding,  without  a  word  in  reply — a  circum-  J 
stance  that  excited  the  especial  wonder  of  her  husband — •  i 
took  up  the  basket,  and  passed  into  their  chamber,  as  if  !; 
to  do  his  bidding.  Acquiescence  like  this  he  had  been  £ 
far  from  anticipating.  Yet  was  he,  in  the  blindness  ci 
evil  passion,  bent  on  thrusting  the  babe  from  his  house.  !; 
The  very  thought  of  it  was  an  offence  to  him. 

"  Jacob !"  It  was  the  voice  of  his  wife,  calling  to  J 
him  from  the  adjoining  room,  where  she  had  been  for  \ 
several  minutes. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?"  he  answered,  gruffly. 

"  Come  here  a  moment/'  Mrs.  Harding  spoke,  in  a 
mild,  subdued  voice. 

"  You  come  here.  You're  as  able  to  walk  as  I  am,''  \ 
he  retorted 


THE  ANOEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        19 


"  Just  a  minute.     I  want  to  show  you  something." 

Harding  arose  and  went  into  the  room  from  which  his 
wife  had  called  to  him.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor  stood 
the  basket,  and  lying  in  the  basket,  with  its  beautiful 
face  uncovered,  was  the  sleeping  infant. 

"There  it  is,  Jacob,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  in  a  low, 
iteady  voice.  "  Cast  it  forth,  if  you  have  the  heart  to 
do  so — I  have  not." 

How  suddenly  were  the  man's  steps  arrested!  Tho 
moment  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  placid  face  of  the  infant, 
BO  innocent,  so  peaceful,  so  heavenly  in  expression,  he 
felt  himself  within  the  circle  of  some  strange  power  that 
>  stilled  the  waves  of  passion  in  his  heart. 
J  "  Cast  it  forth,  Jacob,  if  you  can,"  repeated  his  wife. 
<  •'  My  hands  would  be  powerless  were  I  to  make  the 
]  effort." 

A  little  while  Harding  struggled  with  himself  and  the 
new  influences  that  so  suddenly  pervaded  the  atmosphere 
around  him;  then,  with  an  effort,  he  turned  himself 
away,  and  went  back  into  the  room  from  whence  his 
wife  had  called  him. 

Tenderly,  very  tenderly,  did  Mrs.  Harding  lift  the 
sweet  babe,  still  sleeping,  from  the  basket,  and  replace 
it  in  the  bed,  the  moment  her  husband  retired,  van- 
quished by  weapons  his  fierce  manhood  despised,  yet 
against  which  he  had  no  shield  cf  defence.  For  some 
time  she  bent  over  the  baby,  gazing  upon  its  face ;  and 
it  was  only  with  an  effort  that  she  could  tear  herself 
»way. 

"  You'd  better  keep  it  all  night,"  said  Harding,  as 
nis  wife  entered  the  room  where  he  was  sitting.  Hifl 
voice,  though  untouched  by  gentler  feelings,  was  not  so 
harsh  and  cruel  as  before.  "  Some  harm  might  come  to 
it,  and  then  we'd  be  blamed.  To-morrow  I'll  have  it 
lent  to  the  poor-house,  if  no  owner  can  be  found." 

Mrs.  Harding  sighed,  but  said  nothing  in  reply.     She 


\ 

20        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

wag  afraid  to  express  what  was  in  her  mind,  for,  by 
years  of  sad  experience,  she  knew  that  for  her  to  express  j 
a  wish,  or  to  approve  a  measure,  was  to  insure  her  hus- 
band's opposition;  and,  in  truth,  it  must  be  told,  that 
she  had  proved  no  inapt  scholar  in  the  same  bad  school 
where  he  had  learned  his  lessons  of  ill-nature  and  boot- 
less contention. 

"  I  only  wish  I  could  find  out  who  has  dared  to  do 
this  miserable  deed,"  resumed  Harding,  his  anger  grow- 
ing warm  again.  "  A  wild  beast  never  deserts  her 
young.  The  wretch  should  be  gibbeted  alive." 

As  he  said  this,  a  cry  arose  from  the  chamber. 

"  There  it  is !  A  nice  time  you'll  have  with  it  to- 
night." 

Mrs.  Harding  went  quickly  in  to  the  babe,  that  was 
now  awake.     She  lifted  it  gently  in  her  arms,  and,  as 
she  drew  it  to  her  breast,  it  commenced  nestling  there, 
seeking  for  the  fountain  of  its  life — alas  !  so  suddenly  and    \ 
BO  cruelly  cut  off.     How  deeply  was  the  heart  of  its  new    j 
friend  stirred  by  this  movement !    What  a  yearning  pity 
pervaded  her  bosom ! 

"  Dear,  dear  child  !"  she  murmured,  as  she  bent  down  \ 
her  face,  and  placed  that  of  the  infant's  closely  against  / 
it.  Holding  it  thus,  she  went  out  into  the  room  where  / 
her  husband  still  remained. 

"  Won't  you  get  me  a  little  milk  in  a  cup,  and  some 
sugar  and  warm  water,  Jacob  ?  The  poor  child  is 
hungry." 

Harding,    with    considerable    reluctance,    went    off, 
grumbling,  to  do  as  his  wife  desired.     The  milk  and     j; 
warm  water  were  brought,  and,  as  he  set  them  on  the 
table,    he   could   not   restrain   the  utterance   of  an  ill- 
natured  remark.     To  this  no  answer  was  returned. 

Much  to  the  relief  and  pleasure  of  Mrs.  Harding,  the  J 
babe  drank  freely  from  the  spoon  which  was  placed  to  its 


lips.     Eridently,  it  had  been  prepared  for  this  great     ' 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        21 


change  in  its  life  by  those  who  contemplated  abandoning 
it  to  strangers.  Somehow,  Harding's  eyes  remained, 
riveted  on  the  face  of  the  child,  as  it  took  the  food  pre- 
pared by  his  wife ;  and,  strangely  enough,  the  longer  L.1 
gazed  upon  it,  the  gentler  became  his  feelings.  The 
human  in  him  began  to  rise  above  the  bestial. 

"  No  punishment  is  bad  enough  for  the  wretch  who 
could  desert  a  child  like  that,"  said  he,  his  ready  indig- 
nation taking  a  new  direction.  "  It  was  fiend-like." 

"  You  may  well  say  that,  Jacob,"  returned  his  wife, 
as  she  drew  the  babe's  head  back  upon  her  bosom,  and 
looked  down  tenderly  upon  its  face.  "  Isn't  it  beau- 
tiful ?" 

"  I  never  saw  any  thing  very  beautiful  in  babies," 
said  the  man,  a  little  impatiently.  He  was  worried  with 
himself  because  of  the  involuntary  interest  in  the  little 
stranger  that  was  awakening  in  his  mind. 

"  Oh  !  how  can  you  say  so  ?" 

Something  of  the  sweetness  of  bygone  years  was  in 
the  voice  of  Mrs.  Harding,  and  something  of  the  maiden 
beauty  in  her  face  that  had  won  the  heart  of  her  hus- 
band in  the  long-ago  time;  at  least  so  it  seemed   to     ;! 
Jacob  Harding. 

"  It  is  true,  Mary,"  he  answered,  even  smiling  briefly, 
as  he  spoke. 

"There  is  beauty  here — beauty  that  even  your  eyes 
can  see.  Dear  little  angel !  It  has  come  to  us  like  a 
ray  of  sunshine,  Jacob.  You  don't  know  what  strange 
feelings  I  have  had  ever  since  I  looked  into  this  sweet 
countenance.  More  like  a  heaven-born  than  an  earthly 
child  the  babe  seems  to  me ;  and  now,  as  it  lies  so  closo 
against  my  bosom,  I  feel  such  a  pleasant  thrill  going 
deep,  deep,  even  to  the  centre  of  my  heart,  that  I  wondei 
as  to  the  cause." 

"  You  are  foolish,  Mary,"  said  Harding,  kindly. 

"  Maybe  I  am,"  she  replied,  "  but  I  can't  help  it 


22        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOLSEHOLD. 


Now  it  is  fast  asleep  again  !  Did  you  ever  see  euch  per- 
fect lashes  for  a  babe  ?  They  lie  in  a  dark  line  upon  ita 
cheeks  like  the  long  lashes  of  a  woman  Let  me  place  it 
in  bed  again." 

Mrs.  Harding  arose  and  turned  to  go  into  the  bed- 
room. As  she  did  so,  her  foot  caught  in  the  carpet, 
and  she  would  have  fallen  forward  had  not  her  husband, 
whose  eyes  were  on  her,  or,  rather,  on  the  babe,  sprung 
instantly  forward  and  caught  her. 

"  Don't  let  it  fall,"  he  cried,  eagerly,  stretching  his 
arms  around  and  beyond  her,  so  as  to  save  the  child. 
The  act  was  involuntary ;  but  it  betrayed,  both  to  his 
wife  and  himself,  the  strong  hold  that  weak,  helpless, 
unconscious  infant  had  already  gained  upon  his  rugged 
heart.  How  this  betrayal  caused  the  warm  blood  to 
leap  joyfully  through  the  veins  of  Mrs.  Harding! 
When  she  returned  from  the  bed-room,  and  addressed 
her  husband,  he  answered  in  milder  tones  than  he  had 
spoken  to  her  in  many  days — weeks  and  months  we 
might  almost  have  ventured  to  affirm. 

"  There's  something  uncommon  about  the  child,  that's 
certain,"  he  said,  as  they  talked  together ;  "  and  I  shall 
not  feel  just  right  about  sending  it  off  to  the  poor-house. 
But  it  can't  stay  here,  for  we've  enough  of  our  own,  and 
it's  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  fill  their  mouths." 

To  this  Mrs.  Harding  answered  nothing.  So  far,  the 
babe  had  been  its  own  all-sufficient  advocate,  and  she 
felt  that  words  from  her  might  prejudice  rather  than 
advance  its  cause. 

As  husband  and  wife  laid  their  heads  upon  their  pil- 
lows that  night,  each  felt  a  calmness  of  spirit  hitherto 
j     unknown.     Selfish  passions  were  at  rest,  and  higher  and 
\     purer  emotions — so  long  held  down  by  evil — stirred  with 
\     a  new  life,  and  opened  the  windows  of  their  hearts  for 
the  influx  of  celestial  influences. 


THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


23 


CHAPTER  H. 

As  Mrs.  Harding  lay  watchful  and  musing  on  hex 
pillow  that  night,  she  wondered  at  her  state  of  feeling. 
Could  the  mere  presence  of  a  babe  effect  so  great  a 
change  ?  Four  times  had  she  been  a  mother,  and  four 
times  she  had  felt,  as  a  helpless  babe,  just  born  into  the 
world,  was  laid  against  her  heart,  an  indescribable  joy. 
Too  soon  had  this  passed  away — too  soon  had  her  briefly 
slumbering  passions  awakened  to  fresh  activity — too  soon 
had  the  trials  and  temptations  of  her  position  changed 
the  heavenly  tenderness  that  pervaded  her  spirit  into 
harshness  or  indifference.  She  remembered  all  this,  and 
wondered  how  she  could  ever  have  indulged  in  anger 
toward  the  little  ones  for  whose  gift  her  heart  had  felt 
such  deep  thankfulness. 

How  distinctly  present  to  the  eyes  of  her  mind  were 
Andrew,  and  Lucy,  and  Philip,  and  Lotty !  Not  with 
faces  marred,  as  was,  alas !  too  often  the  case,  by  selfish 
and  cruel  passions,  but  with  each  young  countenance 
beautified  with  loving  affections.  With  what  a  new  im- 
pulse did  her  heart  go  out  toward  them  !  All  the  mother 
in  her  was  stirred  to  its  profoundest  depths.  While  she 
thought  and  felt  thus  toward  her  own  children,  involun- 
tarily she  raised  her  head,  and  bending  over,  lay,  partly 
reclining,  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  calm  face  of  tho 
sweet,  young  stranger. 

"  Baby — -dear  baby !"  She  could  not  keep  back  the 
low  utterance;  and,  as  she  spoke,  she  lifted  the  sleeper 
in  her  arms,  and,  hugging  it  to  her  bosom,  commenced 
r  eking  her  body,  and  murmuring  a  tender  lullaby. 

"  Don't  .bo   foolish,   Mary !"     Jacob   Harding   spoke 


24        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


more  roughly  than  he  felt,  but  in  tones  less  reproving 
than  he  had  meant  to  use.  "  You'll  waken  the  child, 
and  then  we  shall  have  a  time  of  it." 

"  She  is  so  sweet,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  as  she  kissed 
the  babe,  and  then  replaced  it  in  the  warm  nest  from 
which  it  had  just  been  withdrawn.  She  did  not  know 
that  her  husband  was  awake  :  he  had  been  lying  so  very 
still,  that  she  believed  him  sleeping.  But  busy  thought 
excited  by  a  new  current  of  feeling,  had  driven  slumber 
also  from  his  eyelids 

"  One  would  think  you'd  never  seen  a  baby  before  !" 

There  was  no  ill-nature  in  the  voice  of  Jacob  Harding, 
notwithstanding  he  tried  to  speak  unkindly.  The  fact 
was,  he  had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  speaking 
harshly  to  his  wife,  that,  to  address  her  with  any  thing 
like  tenderness,  seemed  an  unmanly  weakness.  And  so 
he  put  on  a  rough  exterior  to  hide  the  softness  within 
He  could  not  entirely  hide  it,  however.  Mrs.  Harding 
perceived  all  the  change  he,  too,  WHS  experiencing,  and 
it  but  increased  her  wonder  and  delight.  She  did  not 
venture  a  reply,  lest  something  in  her  words  should 
quicken  the  perverse  temper  of  her  husband. 

Never  in  her  life  before  did  Mrs.  Harding  fall  asleep 
in  such  a  state  of  mind,  or  with  thoughts  so  full  of  all 
tenderness  and  loving-kindness;  and  never  before  came 
to  her  a  dream  so  strange  and  beautiful.  Last  in  her 
thoughts,  as  all  waking  perceptions  died,  were  the  sin- 
gular incidents  of  the  evening;  and,  as  fancy  began  to 
mingle  her  airy  forms  with  the  things  of  actual  life,  the 
strange  vision — real  or  ideal — that  fixed  the  eyes  of 
Mrs.  Harding,  as  she  gazed  through  the  open  door  into 
the  surrounding  darkness,  was  most  proroiuent.  Across 
this  warp,  fancy  threw  her  shuttle,  and  strange  figures 
'/  were  soon  made  visible  in  the  dreamy  fabrJc  she  wove. 

Again  Mrs.  Harding  was  alone  in  the  fauiily  sitting- 
room      No  babe  was  in  her  lap ;  but,  in  the  open  door 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        25 


stood  a  beautiful  woman,  and  she  knew  her  lo  be  the 
game  whose  white,  sad,  yearning  face  had  been  revealed 
to  her  a  moment  on  the  background  of  shadows.  Ten- 
der and  serious,  but  not  sad,  was  her  face  now,  as  she 
beckoned  with  her  hand.  Mrs.  Harding  arose  and  fol- 
lowed the  lovely  apparition.  As  she  stepped  beyond  tho 
threshold,  she  became  aware  that  the  earth  lay  in  sun- 
light, and  that  the  scenery  around  was  new  and  more 
beautiful  than  any  thing  she  had  seen.  Here  were  soft, 
green  meadows,  dotted  with  snow-white  lambs;  there, 
leafy  avenues,  along  which  the  eye  ranged  to  an  almost 
interminable  distance,  and  yonder  towered  up,  even  to 
the  spotless  heavens,  mountains  as  blue  as  the  sky  itself. 
"  The  land  of  innocence  and  essential  love,"  said  the 
stranger,  as  they  gained  an  eminence  and  looked  down 
upon  the  scene  spread  out  in  beauty  before  them.  "  The 
angels  of  childhood  dwell  here.  Whenever  a  babe  is 
born  upon  the  earth,  two  angels  from  this  world  are  ap- 
pointed to  its  guardianship,  and  they  remain  near  the 
child  through  all  the  days  of  its  tender  infancy  j  and 
near  the  mother,  also,  filling  her  heart  with  love  for  her 
helpless  offspring.  It  is  their  presence  that  so  often 
changes  the  selfish  and  cruel  woman  into  the  tenderest 
of  mothers.  They  flow  into  her  mind  through  love  for 
her  babe,  and  fill  it  so  full  of  what  is  gentle  and  good, 
that  evil  passion  has  no  room  for  activity.  But,  gra- 
dually, as  the  minds  of  infants  are  opened,  through  the 
senses,  to  a  knowledge  of  the  world  into  which  Ihey 
have  been  born,  and  as  the  will,  gaining  strength,  is 
moved  by  inherent  evil,  the  angels  gradually  recede  from 
be  th  the  child  and  the  mother ;  not  because  they  wish  to 
abandon  their  charge,  but  because  their  gentle  influence 
is  no  longer  perceived.  With  some  they  remain  longer 
than  with  others ;  for  some  children  are  born  with  fewer 
perverse  inclinings,  and  some  mothers  love  their  babea 
with  a  divine  rather  Mian  an  earthly  love." 
3 


26        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


As  the  fair  stranger  ceased  speaking,  Mrs.  Harding 
perceived  that  they  were  standing  in  one  of  the  porticos 
of  a  building,  the  architecture  of  which,  in  its  grandeur, 
exceeded  any  thing  ever  reached  by  the  boldest  imagina- 
tion. The  walls  were  of  translucent  gems,  and  every- 
where the  ornaments,  that  seemed  living  forms,  gleamed 
with  gold  and  sparkled  with  precious  stones  of  wonderful 
brilliancy.  Into  this  magnificent  palace  they  entered, 
and  the  stranger  led  the  way  to  a  large  east  room,  where 
a  small  company  of  beautiful  virgins  stood  near  a  win- 
dow, from  which  they  were  gazing  earnestly. 

"  Let  us  approach  them,"  said  the  stranger ;  and  they 
moved  over  to  where  the  virgins  were  assembled  by  the 
window. 

"  Pride  and  human  fear  have  hardened  her  heart." 
Thus  spoke  one  of  the  virgins.  "  And  she  is  about  to 
desert  the  babe.  See  I" 

All  bent  near  and  gazed  from  the  window.  To  the 
eyes  of  Mrs.  Harding  every  thing  looked  dark  and  sad. 
It  was  some  time  before  she  was  able  to  distinguish  ob- 
jects; but,  when  her  vision  was  clear,  she  recognised  all 
the  prominent  features  of  the  scene.  Dimly  revealed 
from  out  of  the  murky  shadows,  was  the  neighbourhood 
where  she  dwelt,  and  she  seemed  to  be  looking  down 
upon  it,  as  from  an  eminence.  It  was  night,  for  all  was 
in  half  obscurity,  and  the  stars  were  shining  from  the 
sky.  Here  and  there  stood  a  house — she  knew  them  all 
— and  there  was  her  humble  abode,  the  only  one  from 
the  window  of  which  light  streamed  forth  upon  the 
gloomy  darkness.  As  she  continued  to  look,  an  object 
moving  along  one  of  the  roads  became  visible.  Gazing 
more  intently,  she  saw  a  woman,  and  in  her  hand  she 
carried  a  basket.  A  thrill  passed  along  every  nerve,  as 
she  recogiised  the  face  that  had  looked  so  wildly  upon 
her  from  the  fading  circle  of  light,  and  she  turned 


I 


quickly  toward  the  stranger  who  had  led  her  thither — 
but  she  was  now  alone  with  the  virgins. 

"  Not  there,"  said  one  of  the  company. 

The  woman  had  paused  before  a  house,  the  inmates 
\  of  which  Mrs.  Harding  knew  to  be  best  esteemed  in  al] 
;>  the  neighbourhood  for  goodness  of  heart  and  kindness  of 
I;  action.  In  this  home  there  was  ease  and  comfort;,  and 
<  the  babe,  if  left  there,  would  find  love  and  tenderness. 

"  Why  not  there?"  she  asked  aloud. 

"  Even  a  babe  has  its  mission  of  good  to  the  world," 
answered  one.     "  A  household  angel  will  this  babe  be, 
\     wherever  it  is  received;   for  to  the  best  of  Heaven's 
I    angftls  has  been  committed   its   guardianship.     If  the 
mother,  hearkening  to  evil  counsel,  casts  it  from  her, 
the  blessing  of  its  presence  must  be  for  those  who  need 
the  blessing.     No,  not  there." 

And  the  woman,  who  had  paused  before  the  dwelling 
of  peace,  took  up  the  bundle,  and  passed  on  slowly, 
wearily,  and  in  tears. 

"  Not  there,"  said  one  of  the  virgins,  as  she  stopped 
before  another  dwelling. 

The  woman  seemed  to  hear  the  words,  for  she  raised 
the  basket  again,  and  kept  on  her  way.  As  she  did  so, 
her  eyes  received  the  light,  streaming  forth  from  the 
Hardings'  window,  and  she  turned  her  step  thitherward. 

"  The  angels  of  childhood  are  about  to  leave  that 
dwelling,"  said  one  of  the  virgins ;  "  for  innocence  has 
almost  died  in  the  hearts  of  the  children.  A  dark 
shadow  is  resting  over  them,  for  the  powers  of  evil  have 
prevailed  over  the  good.  Let  the  babe  go  there." 

"  There  ?  Not  there  !"  answered  one  of  the  virgins 
"  The  innocent,  helpless  lamb  must  not  be  left  in  a  den 
of  wild  beasts." 

"  It  will  not  go  alone,"  was  replied.  "  Angels  have 
gathered  their  protecting  arms  around  it;  and  its  own 
sphere  of  innocence  will  be  a  wall  of  defence." 


28        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


A  low  cry  reached  the  ears  of  Mrs.  Harding — the  cry 
of  a  babe.  Instantly  the  vision  faded,  and  she  oecame 
aware  that  a  small,  soft  hand  was  nestling  in  her  bosom. 
There  was  a  love,  more  than  human,  in  her  heart,  as  she 
gathered  the  half-waking  infant  in  her  arms,  and  felt 
that  she  had  been,  and  still  was,  in  the  company  of  < 
angels. 

How  vivid  remained  the  impression  of  her  dream —  J 
not  to  her  a  mere  phantasm,  but  a  real  vision : 

"For  this  great  blessing,  Father,  I  am  thankful,"  ^ 
said  she,  as  she  lifted  upward  her  heart  to  heaven. 

Strange  fact !  Not,  perhaps,  since  the  days  of  inno-  } 
cent  childhood  until  now,  had  she  felt  that  God  was  near  , 
to  her,  and  near  as  the  Giver  of  good;  and  that  she  J 
should  address  God  in  a  thankful  spirit !  She  wondered,  ; 
even  while  she  gave  involuntary  thanks. 

When  Mrs.  Harding  slept  again,  it  was  to  dream  of    < 
;    the  babe,  and  to  have  a  consciousness  of  deep  peace,    ; 
i     such  as  she  had  never  experienced  in  her  wakiug  mo-    • 
ments.     New  purposes  and  better  states  of  mind  had    ; 
;>     been  formed  during  both  the  waking  and  sleeping  hours    ' 

that  passed  since  the  little  stranger  first  greeted  her  with 
\     its   winning   smiles.      The    morning   found   her    calm, 
thoughtful,   yet    sad.     What   a   trial    was   before    her ! 
Ah  !  how-  clearly  she  saw  her  difficult  position  !     How 
sunk  her  heart,  as  one  hard,  harsh  fact  after  another,  of 
that  position,  looked  her  sternly  in  the  face !     She  hud 
as  much  to  fear  from  within  as  from  without — from  her 
ungovernable  passions  as  from  the  tempers  of  her  hua- 
j!     band  and  children. 

Dimly   the  morning  broke,   the   cold   light   creeping 

fi     slowly  into  the  chamber  where  she  lay.     Her  husband 

4     and  Lotty  still  slept ;  but  the  babe  was  awake,  and  itg 

I;     large  blue  eyes  were  looking  up  into  hers.     How  sweetly 

it  smiled  !    How  trustfu1  and  loving  the  whole  expression 

of  its  young  face  ' 

I 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        29 


"  Blessed  baby  !"  she  said  tenderly. 
And  it  responded  to  her  greeting  with  a  curving  lip, 
and  the  low,  cooing  sound  of  a  dove,  as  she  talked  to  it, 
forgetful  of  every  thing  in  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 
Harding  awoke  suddenly,  and  starting  up  in  bed,  mut- 
tered some  incoherent  words,  and  threw  his  eyes  hastily 
around  the  room.  His  voice  chilled  the  heart  of  hia 
wife,  for  she  dreaded  his  waking  mood.  Scarcely  think- 
ing of  what  she  did,  Mrs.  Harding  drew  the  bed-clothes 
over  the  child,  and  so  placed  her  body  as  to  shield  it 
from  his  observation. 

"  I've  been  dreaming,  I  believe,"  said  Harding,  as  he 
laid  himself  back  on  the  pillow. 
"  Dreaming  of  what  ?" 

Mrs.  Harding   spoke  very  gently.     In    half  wonder, 
her  husband  turned  his  head  to  look  into  her  face — the 
j>    tone  was  so  unusual. 
>        "I  never  saw  any  thing  so  real." 
\        "  Was  it  a  pleasant  dream  ?" 

;>  Harding  looked  over  at  his  wife  again.  It  was  the 
1;  old  voice  that,  in  times  gone  by,  had  sounded  to  him  so 
•,'  musically. 

"  Yes,  Mary,"  he  answered,  mildly,  "  it  was  a  plea- 
(    &ant,  though  a  singular  dream.     I  thought  some  one  left 

s    a  baby  at  our  door" - 

He  paused  abruptly,  looked  serious  for  a  moment  or 
(    two,  and  then  said — 

"  But  that  was  no  dream,  Mary." 
He  now  raised  himself  up,  and,  as  he  did  so,  Mra. 
Harding  drew  down  the  bed-clothes,  and  showed  him  the 
smiling  infant. 

"  It  was  no  dream,  Jacob,"  she  said,  kindly. 
For  some  time,  Harding  gazed  upon  the  little  face, 
!>    and  the  longer  he  gazed,  the  softer  grew  his  heart.     He 
naid  no  more  of  the  dream ;  yet,  as  well  to  him  as  to  his 
w'fe,  had  come  a  vision — though  not  iu  all  things  alike 
3* 


80        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


He  had  seen  the   little   abandoned  one   in  sleep,  and 
under  circumstances  that  impressed  his  mind  powerfully. 

It  was  now  broad  daylight,  and  Lotty,  as  was  usual 
with  her,  awoke  in  a  bad  humour.  She  commenced 
crying  even  before  her  eyes  were  fairly  open. 

"  What  do  you  want,  Lotty  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Harding. 

But  Lotty  cried  on,  not  seeming  to  have  heard  her 
mother's  voice. 

"Lotty!  Lotty!" 

The  crying  did  not  cease  for  an  instant. 

"  See  what  I've  got  here,  Lotty  !" 

"  You  ain't  got  any  thing  I" 

By  such  words  the  child  had  been  so  often  deceived,  | 
that  no  confidence  remained  even  in  her  mother.  And  I; 
so  she  kept  crying  on. 

"  Will  you  hush,  now  ?" 

The  father's  patience  was  gone,  and  he  spoke  in  a  i 
quick,  angry  voice.  How  the  little  stranger  babe  £ 
started !  What  a  frightened  look  was  in  its  face !  > 
Harding  saw  the  effect  of  his  harsh  tones;  and,  for  the  ? 
sake  of  the  babe,  regretted  the  sudden  passion  to  which  s 
he  had  given  way. 

"But  I  have  got  something  here,  Lotty,"  said  Mrs. 
Harding.     "  It  is  the  dearest  little  baby  you  ever  saw    > 
in  your  life." 

Instantly  the  voice  was  silent,  and,  springing  from  the 
bed  in  which  she  lay,  Lotty  stood  beside   her  mother. 
Harding   watched  her  face,   and  saw  how  suddenly   it     ^ 
changed. 

"  It  is  wonderful !"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  arose 
and  commenced. dressing — "wonderful.     It  seems  even     !j 
now  as  if  I  must  be  dreaming.     '  A  heaven-sent  child.' 
These  were  the  very  words  that  sounded  in  my  ears  as  I 
awoke;  and  I  verily  believe  the  babe  is  from  heaven." 

"  Baby !  baby  !  dear,  sweet  baby  !     0  mother  !  where 
•did  it  come  from  ?" 


J 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


There  was  such  a  gush  of  delight  in  the  voice  of  S 
Lotty,  who  was  usually  cross  in  the  morning,  as  she 
stood  on  a  chair,  and  bent  over  the  infant,  that  Mr. 
Harding' s  wonder  increased.  A  spell  about  the  babe 
subdued  all  who  came  near.  To  him  it  was  a  new  life- 
phenomenon,  the  mystery  of  which  filled  him  with  sur- 
prise, not  unmingled  with  a  heart-pervading  sense  of 
pleasure. 

Mrs.  Harding  now  arose,  leaving  Lotty  and  the  infant 
equally  delighted  with  each  other,  and  commenced  hur- 
s  riedly  dressing  herself.  It  was  her  business  to  prepare 
!>  the  morning  meal ;  for  the  earnings  of  her  husband  were 
not  sufficient  to  allow  her  help  in  the  family.  With 
many  earnest  injunctions  to  Lotty  not  to  hurt  the  babe, 
she  left  the  chamber  for  the  kitchen,  in  order  to  make 
up  the  fire  and  get  breakfast.  Somehow  or  other,  the 
fire  kindled  with  unwonted  quickness ;  and  every  touch 
and  movement  of  her  hand  seemed  to  accomplish  her 
purpose  more  readily  than  usual.  By  the  time  the  milk- 
man was  at  the  door,  she  had  the  table  set,  and  the 
kettle  was  almost  ready  to  boil.  The  babe's  breakfast 
was  her  next  thought.  It  was  scarcely  the  work  of  a 
moment  to  dilute  some  new  milk  with  warm  water,  to  I; 
add  a  little  sugar,  and  a  few  crumbs  of  bread,  and  to  < 
bear  it  into  the  chamber  where  she  had  left  the  little  ? 
stranger. 

As  she  came  in   noiselessly,  she   saw   her   husband 
stooping   over   the    infant,   whose    two   white,   chubby     £ 
hands  were  fluttering  about  his  rough  face,  and  heard     \ 
the  cooing,  dove-like  voice  that  had  sounded  once  before     < 
to  her  so  sweetly.  ^ 

As  soon  as  Harding  perceived  that  his  wife  was  pre- 
sent, he  left  the  bedside,  half  ashamed  of  his  weakness 
in  thus  toying  with  a  mere  babe. 

"  The  child  must  be  hungry,"  he  said,  with  as  much 
indifference  as  he  could  affect. 


r 

>   32        THE  ANGEL  OI  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

"  I've  brought  her  something  to  eat,"  answered  Mrs. 
Harding.  "  And  won't  you,  Jacob,  while  I  feed  her, 
call  the  children,  and  bring  me  in  an  armful  or  two  of 
wood  ?  Breakfast  will  be  all  ready  in  a  little  while." 

There  was  no  resisting  the  manner  of  Mrs.  Harding. 
If  she  had  always  spoken  to  her  husband  as  now,  ho 
would  always  have  been  to  her  a  kind  husband.  Her 

J    power  over  him  for  good  might  have  been  complete,  had 

\  she  been  wise,  gentle,  and  forbearing.  But  she  had 
exercised  no  self-control,  and  almost  from  the  beginning 

$  of  their  married  life,  had  excited  the  evil  in  him,  rather 
than  the  good.  How  much  she  had  lost,  and  how  much 
she  had  suffered  in  consequence,  can  hardly  be  imagined. 
Her  life,  for  the  last  six  or  seven  years,  might  almost  be 
called  a  living  martyrdom. 

Harding  did  not  answer,  but  went  out  from  the  cham- 
ber promptly  to  do  as  his  wife  had  requested.  Ordi- 
narily, in  calling  the  children,  he  spoke,  to  use  tho 
strong  words  of  his  wife,  "as  if  he  would  take  their 
heads  off."  He  corrected  this  bad  habit  in  the  present 
instance;  for,  instead  of  ordering  them  roughly  and 
angrily  to  get  right  up,  or  he  would  be  after  them  "  with 
a  stick,"  he  ascended  to  the  room  where  they  lay,  and 
spoke  kindly,  yet  firmly,  to  each  one,  subduing  their 
waking  impatience,  by  the  quiet  pressure  of  his  own 
voice  and  manner. 

"  Andrew,"  he  said  in  a  tone  that,  exciting  no  opposi- 
tion in  the  boy's  mind,  left  the  consciousness  that  he 
must  obey — l(  dress  yourself  before  you  come  down,  and 
do  it  quickly." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  answered  cheerfully,  and  Andrew 
sprang  from  his  bed. 

"Philip!    Lucy!"      The  Iwo  younger  children  rose     $ 

\  up.  "Go  down  to  your  mcther  She  wants  to  dreaa 
you." 

The  vo  ice  and  manner  of  their  father  were  so  unusual, 

L. . _„,„,,,.,,,,- J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        33 


that  the  little  ones  felt  both  surprise  and  p  easure. 
They  obeyed  instantly,  and  Mr.  Harding  had  the  strange 
satisfaction  of  witnessing  an  act  of  ready  and  cheerful 
obedience  in  his  children. 

A  great  surprise  awaited  Lucy  and  Philip,  and  they 
were  just  in  tffe  state  of  mind  for  its  full  enjoyment. 

A  stranger,  who  had  looked  in  upon  Harding' s  family 
at  the  early  meal  on  the  previous  day,  and  who  looked 
in  again  upon  them  as  they  assembled  around  the  break- 
fast-table on  this  morning,  could  hardly  have  believed 
that  his  eyes  rested  on  the  same  individuals.  In  her 
usual  place  was  Mrs.  Harding,  the  stranger  babe  on  her 
arm,  and  looking  so  beautiful  and  happy,  that  all  eyes 
and  hearts  were  drawn  toward  it.  Little  Lotty,  from  the 
moment  its  bright  eyes  looked  into  hers,  had  not  once 
left  its  side,  and  now,  as  she  sat  close  to  her  mother,  she 
could  not  eat  for  pleasure. 

"  Has  it  any  name,  mother  ?"  asked  Andrew,  from 
whom  had  not  proceeded  a  single  ill-natured  word  or  act, 
since  he  came  down  and  saw  the  baby. 

Mrs.  Harding  did  not  reply,  but  looked  at  her  hus- 
band. A  name  had  been  floating  in  her  thoughts,  but 
she  hesitated  about  giving  it  utterance. 

"  Dora,"  said  Mr.  Harding.     "  Let  us  call  her  Dora." 

Now,  that  was  not  the  name  about  which  Mrs.  Harding 
nad  been  thinking ;  nor  was  it  a  name  that  pleased  her 
ear.  It  was  on  her  tongue  to  say,  "  Oh,  no ;"  but  she 
kept  silent.  Her  eyes  were  bent  down  upon  the  little 
one's  face,  and  there  she  read  her  duty.  For  its  sake, 
she  refrained  from  objecting,  because  she  feared  that  any 
want  of  accord  with  her  husband  would  produce  a  state 
of  opposition  ;  and  so  she  said  nothing. 

"  Shall  it  be  Dora  ?"  Harding  spoke  in  a  pleasant 
voice. 

"Yes,  if  you  like  the  name."  Anl  Mrs.  Harding 
looked  up  and  smiled  as  she  answered 


34        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD 


"  Have  you  thought  of  one,  Mary  ?" 

"  A  name  has  been  in  my  mind  ever  since  I  awoke 
this  morning.  But  if  Dora  sounds  pleasant  to  your 
ears,  let  her  be  called  Dora." 

"What  name  did  you  think  of?  Perhaps  I  will  like 
it  best,"  said  Harding. 

"Grace."     Mrs.  Harding  spoke  the  word  softly  and    \ 
tenderly. 

"  The  very  name  !"  said  her  husband.     "  It  is  much    ; 
better  than  Dora.     Let  her  be  called  Grace." 

"  Grace  !  Grace  I"    All  the  children  echoed  the  name ;    jj 
and  the  baby,  as  if  conscious  of  a  new  importance,  tossed 
its  little  hands,  and  smiled. 

So  touched  was  Mrs.  Harding  by  this  unexpected  ac- 
quiescence of  her  husband,  that  tears  came  into  her  eyes. 
For  the  first  time  in  months,  it  might  be  yearg,  Harding  ', 
had  deferred  to  her  wishes — but  not  in  consequence  of  J 
resolute  persistence  on  her  part.  Had  she  contended  for  s 
the  name  that  pleased  her  best,  he  would  never  have  ? 
seen  in  it  a  beauty  and  fitness  above  the  one  he  pre-  s' 
ferred  himself;  and  she  would,  in  the  end,  have  been  > 
compelled  to  yield,  or  have  the  babe  thrust  out  from  the  ^ 
home  into  which  its  presence  had  already  brought  so  £ 
many  rays  of  sunshine. 

And  so  the  babe  was  named  Grace. 

"What  will  you  do,  Mary?"  said  Harding  to  hia 
wife,  as,  after  sitting  longer  than  usual  at  the  table,  he 
arose  to  leave  the  Chouse.  As  he  spoke,  he  looked  toward 
the  child  that  still  lay  in  her  arms.  Mrs.  Harding 
understood,  and  answered  quickly — 

"  Oh,  I  shall  get  on  very  well.  Breakfast  wasn't  late 
a  minute  this  morning,  and  I'm  sure  every  thing  haa 
gone  on  pleasantly.  No  hurry  nor  confusion.  The 
children  never  behaved  better  in  their  lives." 

And  the  mother  glanced  at  them  approvingly. 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  3  3 


'  But  you  can't  attend  to  an  infant,  and  do  all  your 
\     work  into  the  bargain  ?" 

"  You  see  if  every  thing  isn't  in  order,  and  dinner 
\  smoking  on  the  table  when  you  corne  home,"  answered 
^  Mrs.  Harding,  cheerfully,  and  with  smiles. 

Harding  lingered.  There  was  a  fascination  about 
<!  little  Grace,  from  the  circle  of  which  it  seemed  as  if  ho 
ij  could  not  break. 

"  What  are  we  to  do  with  this  child,  Mary  ?"  said  he, 
his  manner  becoming  serious.  "  We  have  more  children 
now  than  we  can  well  take  care  of." 

"Has  it  brought  us  trouble  or  pleasure,  so  far?" 
j  >-sked  Mrs.  Harding,  looking  up  earnestly  into  her  hus- 
<  pand's  face.  He  did  not  answer. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  it  taken  to  the  poor-house  ?"       \ 
j        "  No,  no.     It  shall  not  go  there !"     Harding  spoke 
(    quickly  and  strongly 

\  "  It  is  a  heaven-sent  child,  Jacob,"  said  Mrs.  Harding, 
',  in  a  low  but  impressive  voice.  "  I  know  it  from  the 
i  dream  that  came  to  me  last  nigkt.  jjet  us  accept  the 
\  boon  thankfully.  He  who  sent  it  to  us  will  see  that  it 
I  shall  prove  not  a  burden,  but  a  blessing." 

Harding  answered  not  a  word,  but  drew  nearer  to  bis 
;  wife,  and,  bending  down,  laid  his  finger  upon  the  babe'p  !; 
I  soft  cheek.  He  would  have  stooped  lower  and  kissed  s 
|  the  cheek,  but  felt  ashamed  to  betray  what  seemed  to  J 
him  a  weakness. 

When  that  hard,  harsh,  passionate  man  went  forth  s 
into  the  world  of  strife  and  labour,  he  carried  in  his  £ 
thoughts  the  beautiful  image  of  a  babe.  Men  with  ^ 
whom  he  had  been  used  to  come  in  rough  contact,  saw  j 
a  change,  but  divined  not  the  cause.  He  was  less  $ 
coarse  in  speech,  and  rude  in  action — less  contentious —  / 
less  overbearing.  The  consequence  was,  that  men  who  < 
had  always  treated  him  roughly,  because  he  was  himself  5 
rough,  instantly  changed  their  manner,  so  that  fewer  <| 


88        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


things   than   usual   occurred   to  chafe  his   spirit.      Noi 
^     during  all  that  morning  was  the  image  of  the  babe  once 
wholly  obliterated,  though  many  times  obscured. 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  said  Harding  to  himself, 

!as  he  reflected  on  the  change.     "  Am  I  the  same  man     \ 
that  I  was  yesterday  ?     What  is  there  in  a  little  helpless 
babe  to  cast  a  spell  like  this  ?" 

But  he  questioned  in  vain.     He  could  not  understand    !; 
the  mystery.     With  lighter  steps  and  a  ligfiter  heart    5 
than  usual,  he  took  his  way  home  at  dinner-time,  look- 
ing for  sunshine  there.     And  he  did  not  loek  in  vain, 
'•    for  it  lay  broader  and  brighter  over  his  threshold  than     >' 
it  had  lain  for  many  years. 


i  I 


tHE   ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD.  87 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THERE  was  quite  a  stir  in  the  neighbourhood  when 
the  news  got  abroad  that  an  infant  had  been  found  at 
the  door  of  the  Hardings.  The  gossips  had  a  "  world  to 
$  gay"  on  the  subject ;  and  all  agreed,  that  a  more  unfor- 
;  tunate  selection  of  a  home  for  the  little  one  could  not 
;  have  been  .made. 

"  It  don't  matter  much  as  far  as  that  goes/7  said  Mrs. 
;  Margaret  Willits,  the  storekeeper's  wife,  as  she  chattered 
;  over  the  tea-table  with  Mrs.  Jarvis  and  Miss  Gimp; 
;>  "  for  the  truth  is — all  among  ourselves,  remember — 
;  Harding  can't  support  his  own  children,  let  alone  other 
:  people's.  Somebody  will  have  to  take  the  child  off  their 
'/  hands,  or  they'll  send  it  to  the  poor-house." 

"But   he   does   support  his  own   children,"  replied 
Miss  Gimp. 

This  was  ingeniously  remarked,  in  order  to  draw  Mrs. 
<  Willits  out. 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  the  storekeeper's  wife, 
!;  mysteriously. 

"  Who  does  support  them  ?" 
Mrs.  Jarvis  put  the  question  direct. 
"  I  guess  we  do  our  part — this  among  ourselves." 
"  Oh,  I  understand,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  a  light  break- 
ing  over   her   countenance.     "He   doesn't   pay  up   at 
your  store  ?" 

"You've  hit  :t    *'ght — but  it's  all  among  ourselves, 
remember." 

"  Oh,  of  course,    icturned  Miss  Gimp.     And " 

"Of  course,"  said  Mrs.  Jarvis.     "W4e  wouldn't  spca* 
of  it  on  any  consideration." 
4 


88        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Don't,  if  you  please ;  for  they're  bad  kind  of  people, 
and  I  wouldn't  get  their  ill-will  on  any  account.     Mrs. 
Harding  has  an  awful  tongue  in  her  head ;  and  what  is 
worse,  I  verily  believe  she  would  seek  to  do  me  some 
harm,  if  she  knew  I'd  said  a  word  against  her." 
"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  both  of  the  ladies  at  once. 
"  And  so  Harding  owes  your  husband  ?"     Miss  Gimp 
j;     spoke  insinuatingly. 

"  Oh,  yes.     He's  been  getting  things  off  and  on  now, 
5     for  a  year.     Every  little  while  he  comes  and  pays  some- 
thing on  account ;  but  manages  to  let  his  bill  keep  get- 
s     ting  larger  and  larger.     Mr.  Willits  says  it  must  stop 
soon.     He  was  going  to  refuse  them  trust  last  week; 
but  thought  he  would  wait  a  while  longer.     He  knows 
that  the  moment  he  stops  them  off,  Harding  will   be 
^     terribly  angry,  and  that  he  will  not  only  lose  the  custom 
'/     of  the  family,  but  all  the  money  that  is  owed  to  him 
I     into  the  bargain." 

"Rather  a  hard  case,"  remarked  Miss  Gimp. 
"Isn't  it?     And  so,  as  I  was  saying,  it  doesn't  mat- 
ter much  for  the  child,  that  it  was  left  at  their  door. 
They'll  never  dream  of  keeping  it." 

"When  was    the    infant    abandoned?"   asked   Mrs. 
ff     Jarvis. 

"  Three  nights  ago,"  replied  the  storekeeper's  wife. 
"  Indeed !     I  never  heard  a  syllable  of  it  until  to- 
\     day.     And  the  child  is  still  with  them  ?" 

"  For  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,"  said  Mrs.  Willits. 
"  They've  been  very  quiet   about   the   matter,  that's 
certain,"   remarked    Miss    Gimp,    who   was   dressmaker 
and   assistant  gossip   for   the    neighbourhood.     "Three 
nights  ago — and  not  a  breath  of  it  to  reach  my  eara 
until  last  evening !     It  looks  mysterious.     Why  should 
j>     they  be  so  very  still  about  it? — they,  of  all  people  in 
the  world !     I  shouldn't  wonder,   now  that  I  think  of 
it,  if  they  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  they  care  to 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        89 


tell.     There's  something  wrong,  depend  on't.     I'm  as 
3     sure  of  it  as  that  I  am  sitting  here." 

"  Wrong  in  what  way  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Jarvis,  manifest- 
ing a  new  interest  in  the  subject. 

Miss  Gimp  affected  a  mysterious  manner,  as  if  she 
knew  more  of  what  was  going  on  in  the  neighbourhood 
sthan  she  felt  at  liberty  to  tell. 

"  Have  you  any  suspicion  as  to  where  the  child  came 
from  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Willits. 

"  I  have  my  own  thoughts,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  with  a 
gravity  that  so  well  became  her.  "  But  thoughts  cannot 
always  be  spoken." 

"  We  are  all  friends,  you  know,  Miss  Gimp."  Mrs. 
Jarvis  put  on  her  most  insinuating  manner.  "Old 
friends,  who  can  trust  one  another." 

"  I'd  trust  you  with  any  thing  I  knew  certain,"  re- 
plied Miss  Gimp.  "  But  it's  all  guess-work  here.  Wait 
a  few  days.  I'm  bound  to  sift  this  matter  to  the  bottom. 
At  present,  I'll  just  give  it  as  my  opinion,  that  the 
Hardings  know  a  great  deal  more  about  the  child  than 
they  care  to  tell." 

"You  may  be  right  there,  Miss  Gimp,"  said  Mrs. 
!>    Willits — "  else,  why  have  they  kept  so  still  about  it  ?" 
<;        "  Exactly  !     Why  have  they  kept  so  still  about  it  ?" 

"Did  you   hear,"    inquired   Mrs.  Jarvis,  "whether 
!;    there  was  a  letter  in  the  basket  with  the  child  ?" 

Mrs.  Willits  shook  her  head. 

"  Of  course,  there  must  have  been,"  said  Miss  Gimp. 
''There  always  is,  in  affairs  of  this  kind.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  the  parentage  of  that  child  is  no  secret  to 
the  Hardings.  And" — her  imagination  was  taking  a 
ij  freer  range — "I  shouldn't  at  all  wonder  if  the  basket 
•;  contained  something  more  than  a  baby." 

"What?" 

The  two  ladies  bent  closer  toward  Miss  Gimp. 

"  Money  I" 


A^j-wv 

40        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"Money?" 

"Yes:  a  handsome  sum  of  money;  and  a  letter  be- 
sides,  promising  a  regular  payment  of  more  every  month 
or  quarter,  as  long  as  they  keep  the  child.  Depend 
upon  it,  this  is  the  case ;  I'm  as  sure  of  it  as  if  I  had 
seen  into  the  basket  myself." 

"  You've  guessed  it  as  certain  as  fate,"  said  Mrs. 
Willits,  with  animation.  "No  one  would  have  trusted 
a  little  helpless  infant  in  their  hands,  without  some 
strong  hold,  like  this,  upon  their  selfishness.  Well,  all 
<j  I  can  say  is,  that,  in  the  first  place,  they  didn't  deserve 
any  such  good  fortune ;  and  in  the  second  place,  who- 
ever selected  them  as  guardians  of  the  child,  have  made 
a  cruel  experiment." 

In  this  the  other  ladies  fully  agreed,  Miss  Gimp  re- 
marking, "It  is  an  ill  wind  that  blows  nobody  good. 
Your  husband,  Mrs.  Willits,  may  now  stand  some  chance 
of  getting  his  money." 

"  Sure  enough  !    I  didn't  think  of  that.    It  takes  you, 
Miss  Gimp,  to  see  all  the  bearings  of  a  subject." 
jj         Miss  Gimp   was   flattered  by   this   compliment,  and 
drew  her  head  up  in  a  way  peculiar  to  herself  when 
pleased. 

"  Has  any  one  seen  the  child  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Jarvis. 

"  I  have  not,"  answered  Mrs.  Willits ;  "  nor  have  I 
met  with  any  one  who  has  called  on  Mrs.  Harding  since 
^     it  was  left  at  her  house.     There's  neither  pleasure  nor 
^     comfort  in  visiting  her;  and  so  people  stay  away.     I 
haven't  been  in  her  house  for  three  months.     The  fact 
|     is,  the  last  time  I  called  on  her,  she  was  in  an  awful 
humour  about  something  or  other,  and  as  snappish  as  a 
turtle.     I'm  sure  she  boxed  the  ears  of  every  child  she 
has,  three  times  over,  while  I  was  there,  and,  if  the 
truth  must  be  told,  they  richly  deserved  all  they  got; 
for  a  more  ill-mannered,  quarrelsome  brood  I  never  suw. 
\ndrew,  their  oldest  boy,  is  a  perfect  little  desperado. 


THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD.  4l 

The  way  he  knocked  the  other  children  about  was  dread- 
ful. I  was  in  fear  every  moment  of  seeing  some  of  their 
limbs  broken  or  eyes  put  out." 

"Just  as  it  was  when  I  called  theie  last,"  said  Misa 
Gitnp  "  I  went  to  fit  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Harding.  The 
house  seemed  like  a  perfect  bedlam.  The  children  quar 
relied  all  the  while,  and  their  mother  stormed  at  them 
incessantly.  I  was  too  glad  to  get  away." 

"  Do  you  expect  to  go  there  again  very  soon  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Jarvis. 

"  I  ought  to  have  gone  there  a  week  ago,  to  take 
home  the  cape  of  her  last  new  dress.  She  wants  it,  I 
know.  There  isn't  more  than  half  an  hour's  work  on  it, 
and  I'll  do  that  this  very  evening." 

"  Then  you'll  see  her  in  the  morning,"  said  the  store- 
keeper's wife. 
"Yes." 

"  Just  drop  in  on  your  way  back,  Miss  Gimp ;  that's 
a  good  soul.  It's  such  a  strange  affair,  I  really  feel 
curious  about  it.  Take  a  good  look  at  the  baby,  and  see 
if  you  can  trace  a  likeness  to  anybody.  And  then,  be 
sure  to  find  out  if  any  m.oney  came  with  it,  or  is  pro- 
%  raised.  I  want  to  know  about  that,  of  all  things." 

"Never  fear  for  me,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  looking  un- 
I  usually  bright.-  "I'll  gather  up  every  crumb  of  in 
£  formation." 

"  And  you'll  call  in  as  you  go  by  ?" 
"  Oh,  certainly." 

s1  *  "  Do,  if  you  please,"  said  Mrs.  Jarvis ;  "  for,  as  I  have 
!  an  errand  out  in  the  morning,  I'll  manage  to  be  here— 
I;  at  what  time  ?" 

"  Say  ten  o'clock,"  replied  Miss  Gimp. 
Little  else  was  talked  of  by  the  ladies  during  the  hour 
they  remained  together  after  tea. 

On  the  next  morning,  at  ten  o'clock,  Mrs.  Willits  and 
Mrs.  Jarvis  sat  together,  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Misa 
4* 


THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


L 


Gimp,  who  had  looked  in  upon  the  storekeeper's  wife,  aa    \ 
she  passed  on  her  way  to  the  Hardings,  to  say  that  she    ; 
would  call  on  her  return  and  make  a  report.     Sooner    ;» 
than  they  expected  the  dressmaker,  she  came  in.     Her 
face  did  not  look  very  animated. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Gimp  ! — good  morning !"  laid 
the  ladies. 

"  Good  morning." 

Miss  Gimp  tried  to  look  important  and  well  satisfied 
with  herself,  but  the  effort  was  wholly  unsuccessful. 

"  Well,  Miss  Gimp,  did  you  see  the  baby  ?" 

"I  fid." 

There  was  an  ominous  gravity  in  the  gossip's  tones. 

"  Is  it  a  nice-looking  baby  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Willits. 

"  A  very  nice-looking  baby,  indeed.  In  fact,  it's  the  |> 
dearest,  sweetest  little  thing  I  ever  saw." 

"  Why,  Miss  Gimp  !     You  don't  say  so  ?" 

"  It's  the  truth,  every  word  I  tell  you."  5 

"  Well,  really !     It's  a  nice  baby,  then  ?" 

"  You  may  believe  it.  And  then,  it's  so  good  !  Mrs.  ; 
Harding  says  it  hasn't  cried  an  hour  since  it  came  into  'i 
the  house." 

"  You  don't  tell  me !" 

"I  can  well  believe  her;  for,  while  I  was  there,  it  did  \ 
nothing  but  smile  and  coo,  and  try  its  best  to  talk  to  I 
every  one  who  came  near  the  cradle  where  it  lay." 

This  information  was  not__half  so  satisfactory  to  the  ; 
two  ladies,  as  the  report  of  its  being  cross  and  disagree-  > 
able  would  have  been. 

"Well,  so   much   for  the   baby,"  said  Mrs.  Jarvia. 
"  And  now,  Miss  Gimp,  tell  us  all  you  learned  about  it.    / 
Where  do  you  think  it  came  from  ?"  ^ 

"  Haven't  the  least  idea  in  the  world,"  replied  Mis*  \ 
Gimp. 

"  Really !" 

"Reallj!" 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        43 


"  Could  you  trace  a  likeness  ?" 

Miss  Gimp  shook  hear  head. 

''Doesn't  it  look  like  somebody  you  have  seen?" 

"  No  one  that  I  can  remember ;  and  yet  the  face  is 
strangely  familiar.  It  seems  as  if  I  had  met  it  only 
yesterday ;  but,  for  my  life,  I  cannot  tell  where." 

"  "What  does  Mrs.  Harding  say  ?" 

"  Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"  Or  next  to  nothing.  She's  very  quiet  and  very  re- 
served. Something  has  come  over  her  and  the  whole 
family." 

"  Indeed !"     Both  tie  ladies  spoke  at  once. 

"  In  what  respect  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Willits. 

"  I  didn't  hear  a  cross  word  while  I  was  in  the  house, 
either  from  mother  or  children.  The  last  time  I  waa 
there,  Lotty,  the  youngest,  did  nothing  but  fret,  and 
snarl,  and  cry.  But  this  morning  she  sat  on  the  floor, 
beside  the  cradle,  looking  fondly  on  the  baby,  or  playing 
with  it  in  the  gentlest  manner.  The  fact  is,  that  baby 
seems  to  have  brought  a  charm  into  the  house.  I  could 
hardly  believe  I  was  with  the  same  people." 

"  You  don't  tell  us  so  ?" 

"It's  the  truth,  just  what  I  say." 

"  Was  there  any  letter  or  money  in  the  basket  ?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Willits,  whose  interest  in  that  aspect  of  the 
case  was  particularly  strong. 

"Not  that  I  could  find  out,"  answered  Miss  Gimp. 
"  I  felt  my  way,  and  hinted,  and  did  every  thing  except 
^ut  the  question  direct;  but  Mary  Harding  either  could 
not  or  would  not  understand  me.  She  was  always  a 
little  close-mouthed,  you  knew." 

"Why  didn't  you  ask  her  right  up  and  down?  I 
would  have  done  so,"  said  Mrs.  Willits. 

"  It  was  on  my  tongue's  end  more  than  once ;  but 
every  time  I  was  about  to  speak,  she  seemed  to  know 


44        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


what  was  in  my  mind,  and  made  some  remark  that  threw 
me  off." 

"  How  provoking !" 

"  It  was  provoking,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  looking  particu- 
larly annoyed. 

"  What  does  she  intend  doing  with  the  little  strangei  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Jarvis. 

"  Keep  it,"  replied  Miss  Gimp. 

"  She's  got  a  house  full  of  her  own  now — more  than 
$  her  husband-  is  able  to  support,"  said  Mrs.  Willits. 
I  "  I  don't  understand  the  woman." 

"I  think  I  do,"  returned  Miss  Gimp,  assuming  a 
knowing  look.  She  was  good  at  surmising.  "As  to 
there  being  any  disinterested  feeling  toward  the  babe, 
that  is  not  admitted  for  an  instant." 

"  Of  course  not." 

Miss  Gimp  resumed — "  You  may  rely  upon  it,  then, 
as  I  suggested  in  the  beginning,  that  she  knows  all 
about  where  the  child  came  from,  and  is  well  paid  for 
taking  care  of  it." 

"  But  how  do  you  account  for  the  singular  change  in 
her  temper,  and,  above  all,  for  the  change  in  the  temper 
of  her  children  ?" 

"  I've  thought  of  all  that,"  answered  the  dressmaker, 
"and  own  that  I  am  puzzled.  It  has  occurred  to  me, 
that  her  young  savages  may  have  been  tamed,  as  they 
tame  wild  beasts,  by  hunger  and  stripes.  If  she  has  a 
motive  strong  enough  to  make  her  resolute,  Mrs.  Harding 
is  not  the  woman  to  hesitate  about  the  adoption  of  any 
means  for  the  accomplishment  of  her  purposes.  It  has, 
no  doubt,  been  made  her  interest  to  keep  this  child,  and 
to  keep  it  right.  If  this  is  really  so,  she  will  make  all 
bend  to  her  will  in  the  matter." 

And  so,  after  all,  the  dressmaker  had  failed  to  learn 
any  thing  about  the  babe,  that  was  satisfactory  either  to 
herself  or  her  friends,  Mrs.  Willits  and  Mrs.  Jarvis.  As 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD        45 


might  be  supposed,  the  report  of  Miss  Gimp  excited  still 
more  the  curiosity  of  the  two  ladies,  who  had  urged  the 
visit  to  Mrs.  Harding.  They  were  really  troubled,  be 
cause  of  their  inability  to  penetrate  the  mystery  that  sur- 
rounded the  affair.  Over  one  bit  of  information,  re- 
served to  the  last  by  Miss  Gimp,  they  became  excited  j 
<j  but  it  left  them  still  in  the  dark. 

"  Harry  Wilkins  saw  the  person  who  left  the  basket 
4    at  Harding's  door,"  said  the  dressmaker. 
I        "  What !" 

"  I  was  talking  with  Harry  Wilkins  last  evening,  and 
ho  says,  that  on  the  night  the  child  was  left  at  Hard- 
<    ing's,  he  went  to  Beechwood.     On  the  way,  he  met  a 
>    woman   carrying  a  basket.     She  was  young,   and   had 
j    something  strange-looking   about   her.      It   struck   him 
\    that  she  was  in  trouble,  for  she  seemed  very  irresolute — 
walking  on  for  a  time  hurriedly ;  then  stopping  as  if  in 
doubt;  and  once  or  twice  turning  back  toward  Beech- 
wood      His  curiosity  was  excited,  and  he  watched  her 
for  some  time.     On  his  return,  he  met  her  again,  but 
without  the   basket.     He   passed   very  close  to  her — 
close  enough  to  get  a  glimpse  of  her  face,  which  he 
says  looked  like  the  face  of  one  in  deep  distress." 

"  And  she  came  from  Beechwood  ?"  said  Mrs.  Jarvis, 
breathing  deeply. 

11  She  came  from  that  direction,  Harry  says." 
"  The  child's  mother,- no  doubt.  What  a  wretch  she 
must  be !  From  Beechwood  ?  That's  something  to 
know.  I've  got  a  cousin  living  in  Beechwood,  and  I'll 
go  over  and  see  her  this  very  blessed  week.  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  she  could  trace  the  whole  affair." 

Saying  this,  Mrs.  Jarvis  arose,  and  made  a  movement 
to  go,  at  which  Miss  Gimp  remarked  that  she  must  run 
home  also,  as  she  had  promised  a  dress  on  that  very 
day,  and  the  scissors  were  not  into  it  yet.  Nearly  five 
minute}  elapsed  before  aU  their  parting  words  were  said  j* 


16        JHE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


then  they  separated,  with  mutual  promises  to  sift  the 
matter  more  closely,  and  to  communicate,  one  to  another, 
any  thing  new  that  might  happen  to  be  learned. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  WEEK  passed,  and,  notwithstanding  Mrs.  Willits, 
it  league  with  Miss  Gimp  and  Mrs.  Jarvis,  had  been  all 
eye  and  all  ear,  so  to  speak,  yet  they  had  not  been  able 
to  learn  any  thing  satisfactory  to  themselves  about  the 
stranger  babe.  Each  of  the  ladies  had,  during  the  time, 
made  a  call  upon  Mrs.  Harding,  and  each  came  away, 
more  strongly  confirmed  in  her  first  conclusion,  that  she 
knew  a  great  deal  more  about  the  child  than  she  had 
cared  to  tell.  As  for  the  babe  itself,  there  could  be  but 
one  opinion.  Miss  Gimp  said  it  was  "  lovely  j"  and 
when  she  spoke  of  an  infant  so  decidedly,  you  might  be 
sure  there  was  something  about  it  more  than  common. 

Meantime,  singular  changes  were  progressing  in  the 
home  where  the  little  offcast  had  found  an  asylum — 
changes  that  as  much  surprised  the  inmates  as  those 
who  looked  on  from  a  distance.  Grace  had  won  all 
hearts  from  the  beginning  j  even  selfish,  rude,  ill-na- 
tured Andrew,  who  had  been  the  pest  of  the  family, 
Etood  subdued  and  gentle  in  her  presence.  Before  she 
came,  his  greatest  delight  was  in  annoying  and  oppress- 
£  ing  the  other  children ;  now  his  chief  pleasure  consisted 
<  in  holding  the  babe,  carrying  her  about,  or  playing  with 
her  as  she  lay  in  the  cradle.  So  attentive  was  he,  that 
Mrs.  Harding  scarcely  perceived  any  new  demand  upon 


her  time,  in  consequence  of  so  important  an  addition  to 
her  family.  Left  more  to  themselves,  by  the  diversion 
of  Andrew's  attention,  the  other  children — whose  almost 
incessant  strife  owed  its  origin  mainly  to  their  older 
brother's  interference — rarely  gave  way  to  a  wrangling 
spirit.  When  it  did  occur,  a  word  from  their  mother 
eubdued  their  angry  feelings. 

Often  and  often  did  the  hands  of  Mrs  Harding  pause 
in  her  work,  as  she  thought  intently  on  this  new  order 
of  things,  and  wondered  how  it  was,  that  a  single  word 
could  calm  the  stormy  passions  of  her  children,  when 
only  a  little  while  before,  nothing  but  a  more  violent 
storm  on  her  part  could  allay  the  tempest  on  theirs. 
How  greatly  she  was  herself  changed,  did  not  come 
with  clearness  into  her  apprehension  —  changed,  we 
mean,  in  her  external  aspects;  for,  internally,  no  real 
change  had  yet  taken  place  :  there  was  only  the  beginning 
of  a  change.  Nor  was  she  aware  how  different  were  her 
words  and  manner  of  speaking,  when  addressing  her 
children,  to  what  they  were  a  little  while  before. 

One  thing  the  children  did  not  fail  to  notice.  It  was 
this :  the  marked  difference  in  their  mother  when  Grace 
was  awake  and  in  the  sitting-room,  and  when  she  was 
asleep  in  the  adjoining  chamber.  She  was  always  gentler 
and  more  forbearing  toward  them  when  the  babe  was 
present  than  when  absent.  Nor  did  Mrs.  Harding  fail 
to  remark,  that  the  children  were  more  gentle  and  obe- 
dient when  Grace  was  in  the  room  with  them  than  when 
she  was  sleeping. 

Quite  as  remarkable  was  the  change  in  Mr.  Harding. 
He  never  came  in,  now,  with  a  heavy,  horse-like  tread, 
nor  banged  the  door  behind  him,  as  had  been  his  cus- 
tom. Nor  did  he  reprove  the  children,  when  in  fault, 
with  his  former  angry  violence.  Always  he  went  first  to 
look  at  the  babe,  as  if  that  were  uppermost  in  his 
tLoughts.  And  wha4;  seemed  to  please  him  particularly, 


.---.^-_*^ — j 


48        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


was  the  fact,  that  little  Grace  began  to  flutter  hei  tiny 
hands  the  moment  he  appeared,  and  never  seemed  better 
satisfied  than  when  in  his  arms.  Not  once,  since  she 
came  to  them,  like  a  gift  from  heaven,  as  she  was,  had 
he  left  home  in  the  evening,  to  spend  his  time  at  the 
tavern.  In  his  favour  it  may  be  said,  that  his  associa- 
tions at  the  tavern  had  never  presented  a  very  strong 
attraction ;  and  he  had  only  gone  there,  because  every 
thing  in  the  home-sphere,  owing  to  the  incongruities  of 
temper  between  him  and  his  wife,  was  disagreeable  and 
repulsive. 

We  have  omitted  thus  far  to  mention  that  Jacob 
Harding  was  a  carpenter  by  trade.  His  shop  stood  at 
no  great  distance  from  the  store  of  Willits  the  grocer, 
and  not  far  from  the  tavern  kept  by  a  worthless  fellow 
named  Stark,  who  was  doing  more  harm  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood in  a  single  month  than  he  had  ever  done  good 
in  his  life.  The  absence  of  Harding  from  the  bar-room 
of  Stark,  for  so  many  consecutive  evenings,  did  not  fail 
to  excite  the  tavern-keeper's  attention,  who,  not  liking  to 
lose  so  good  a  customer,  made  it  his  business  to  call  in  at 
the  shop  of  Harding,  and  in  a  familiar,  hale-fellow,  well- 
met  sort  of  a  way,  inquire  if  he  had  been  sick.  Thia 
was  about  a  week  after  the  appearance  of  little  Grace  in 
the  carpenter's  family.  Harding  answered  in  the  nega- 
tive, and  with  a  slight  coldness  of  manner. 

"  What's  the  matter,  then  ?"  said  Stark.  "  Any  thing 
wrong  at  home  ?" 

«  Nothing." 

"  We  wanted  you,  particularly,  last  night.  Tom 
Ellis,  from  Beechwood,  and  Jack  Fleming,  from  Avon- 
dale,  were  both  here.  They  had  a  jolly  time  of  it,  I  can 
tell  you;  and  if  they  asked  for  you  once,  they  did  a 
dozen  times.  You  don't  know  what  you  lost.  They're 
coming  over  again  this  evening  You  must  be  sure  and 
meet  them,  for  I  promised  that  you  would  be  on  hand." 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        49 


1 


"  You  were  a  little  too  fast  in  that,"  said  Harding,  as 
he  tightened  the  blade  in  his  jack-plane,  and  then 
sighted  the  edge  to  see  if  it  was  at  the  true  catting 
distance. 

"Why  so?"  asked  Stark. 

"  Because  I  shall  not  be  there." 

"  And  why  not,  pray  ?" 

"Because  I'm  better  off,  and  better  contented,  at 
home,"  was  replied. 

"  Tied  to  your  wife's  apron-string." 

This  was  said  pleasantly,  yet  with  just  enough  of  sar 
casm  to  touch  the  quick  feelings  of  Harding,  without 
giving  offence. 

"I  never  was  tied  to  a  woman's  apron-string  in  my 
life,  and  never  expect  to  be.  Mary  Harding  knows  me 
far  too  well  to  attempt  any  thing  of  that  kind." 

The  tavern-keeper  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  arched 
his  coarse  eyebrows  in  a  way  that  said,  "  I  can  believe 
as  much  of  that  as  I  please  " 

The  quick  temper  of  Harding  took  fire,  and  he  was 
about  making  a  sharp  retort;  but,  singularly  enough, 
the  image  of  little  Grace  came  suddenly  before  the  eyea 
of  his  mind,  and  something  in  her  innocent  face  subdued 
and  tranquillized  him. 

"  Look  here,  Harding."  Stark  spoke  in  a  coarse, 
rough  way.  "  What's  this  I  hear  about  somebody's  brat 
being  left  at  your  door?  Is  it  so? — or  only  Gimp- 
gossip  ?" 

"  A  young  babe  was  left  at  my  door,"  Harding 
answered,  coldly,  and,  at  the  same  time,  commenced 
driving  his  plane  over  a  rough  board  that  lay  on  hia 
work-bench. 

"  You  don't  tell  me  so !  Well,  jvhat  have  you  done 
with  it  ?" 

"  Kept  it," 

"  Kept  i* '     You're  joking !     I   thought  you  had  a 

5 


50        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


house  full  of  your  own — more  than  you  could  get  bread 
for  without  making  a  slave  of  yourself.'' 

Harding  felt  annoyed,  as  well  at  the  tavern-keeper's 
words  as  his   manner,  and  an  angry  retort  was  on  his     ;! 
I     tongue.    But  he  controlled  himself,  and  merely  answered, 
with  assumed  indifference — 

"  We  haven't  found  it  in  the  way,  so  far." 
"  Whose   is   it  ?"   inquired   Stark,  still   in   his  rude 
manner. 

"  Don't  know,"  replied  Harding. 
"  Why  don't  you  send  it  to  the  poor-house  ?     I'd  do 
^     it  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  When  we  are  tired  of  keeping  it,  perhaps  we  will 
j  do  so." 

Stark  began  now  to  see  that  his  way  of  speaking  to 

J     the  carpenter  was  not  altogether  relished  ;  and,  as  it  was 

\     by  no  means  his  interest  to  offend  one  of  his  customers, 

he  changed,  somewhat,  his  manner  of  addressing  him. 

But  he  failed  altogether  in  his  effort  to  restore  the  old 

]     state  of  feeling  that  had  existed  between  them. 

From  the  shop  of  Harding,  Stark  went  to  the  store  of 
\  Mr.  Willits,  where  he  bought  a  barrel  of  sugar  and  a 
J!  bag  of  coffee.  He  was  about  the  only  man  in  the  neigh- 

<  bourhood  whose  pocket-book  was  sufficiently  well  filled 
to   warrant   the    purchase   of  groceries   in  such  liberal 

\     quantities. 

"  Make  out  the  bill  and  receipt  it,"  said  he,  in  a  self- 
\  satisfied  voice. 

"I  like  that,"  was  the  pleasant  response  of  the  store- 
s  keeper.  "  I  wish  all  my  customers  were  as  ready  to  put 
\  the  cash  down.' 

"  Pay  as  you  go — that  is  my  motto,"  returned  Stark. 
"  You'll  not  find  my  name  on  anybody's  books.'' 

"  It's  the  safest  kind  o£-a  motto,  and  one  that  I  shall 

<  have  to  suggest  to  two  or  three  people  about  her*  even 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


should  I  offend  them,"  said  Willits.  "  Harding,  for  in- 
stance, between  you  and  me." 

"  Jacob  Harding !  Why,  is  he  running  behind- 
hand ?" 

The  storekeeper,  before  answering,  threw  open  his 
ledger,  and,  after  glancing  rapidly  along  a  column  of 
figures  on  one  of  the  pages,  said — 

"Yes;  to  the  tune  of  a  hundred  dollars  in  six 
months." 

"Whew!  And  he's  the  man  that  takes  in  stray 
babies?  He  can  afford  to  be  generous — at  your  ex- 
£  pense." 

"  Not  any  longer.  Thank  you  for  that  hint.  I'll  act 
;  upon  it  at  once." 

<  And  so  he  did ;  for,  at  that  moment,  Andrew  Harding 
.j    entered  the  store,  with  a  wooden  pail  in  his  hand,  and 
|    said  that  his  mother  had  sent  him  for  six  pounds  of  flour 

<  and  two  pounds  of  sugar. 

"  Have  you  brought  the  money  ?"  asked  Willits. 
<j        "  No,  sir.     Mother  says,  charge  it." 
',        "Tell   your  mother   that  I  can't   charge  any  thing 
>    more." 

!;        The   boy  looked   bewildered.      He   did   not    clearly 
\    understand  the  storekeeper. 

"Tell  your  mother  that  she  must  send  the  money.     \ 
\     I  can't  trust  any  more." 

Andrew  retired  slowly,  his  mind  in  considerable  per- 
\  plexity,  and  bore  the  message  to  his  mother. 

"That's  right,"   said  Stark,  approvingly.     "It's  the 

<  only  safe  way  to  do  business.     I  rather  think  Harding     i 
f    will  be  as  mad  as  a  March  hare.     You  may  look  out  for     j 
\     a  squall  before  night." 

"  Let  it  come ;  I'm  not  at  all  concerned,"  replied 
Willitg. 

"  I  hope,"  said  Stark,  growing  seriou?,  "  that  nothing 
I  have  said  has  caused  you  to  take  this  stand  with 


*"7** ^ 

52  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 

Harding.     ''We've  always  been  on  good  terms;  and  I 
wouldn't  say  any  thing  to  injure  him  for  the  world."  | 

"  Oh,  no.  My  mind  was  pretty  well  made  up  before 
you  came  in.  That  baby  business  decided  me.  Mrs. 
Willits  and  I  were  talking  it  over  last  night,  and  we 
both  came  to  the  conclusion  that,  if  he  couldn't  make 
both  ends  meet  before,  there  was  no  hope  for  him  now. 
We  did  think,  at  first,  that  a  money  inducement  caused 
him  to  keep  the  child;  but  Mrs.  Harcling  assured  my 
wife,  yesterday,  that  not  a  farthing  came  with  it,  nor 

;>     was  promised   at   any  future  time.     If  they  are  fools 

!;     enough  to  take  up  a  burden  like  this,  they  mustn't  ex- 
pect me  to  bear  it  for  them." 

"  This  refusal  on  your  part  may  do  them  good,"  said 
Stark.  "  It  will,  at  least,  open  their  eyes  to  their  true 
position.  I  rather  think  the  child  will  find  its  way  into 
the  poor-house  before  it  is  a  week  older." 

"  I  don't  care  where  it  goes,  or  what  becomes  of  it," 
answered  the  storekeeper,  "  so  I  get  my  money." 

Soon  after  Stark  left  the  shop  of  Jacob  Harding,  the    ' 
latter  put  on  his  coat  and  hat,  and  went  over  to  the 
house  of  a  farmer,  named  Lee,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 

'/     distant.    This  Lee,  a  rather  thriftless  sort  of  a  man,  who 
spent  far  too  large  a  portion  of  his  time  and  money  at 

\  Stark's  tavern,  owed  the  carpenter  a  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  for  new  roofing  his  house,  and  doing  sundry  re- 
pairs to  his  dilapidated  old  barn.  The  account  had  been 
standing  for  some  months.  On  the  payment  of  thia 
money,  Harding  had  intended  settling  his  bill  at  the 
grocer's.  The  manner  of  Willits,  on  the  day  before, 
when  he  had  called  to  get  half  a  pound  of  tea  and  some 
corn  meal,  annoyed  him  considerably.  He  saw  that  the  s 
storekeeper  was  getting  uneasy  at  the  size  of  his  account, 
which,  but  for  the  failure  to  procure  a  settlement  with 
Lee,  would  have  been  long  since  paid  off.  He  had  i 
brooded  over  this  until  a  sort  of  desperate  feeling  took 


THE  ANGDL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        53 

possession  of  him ;  and,  in  this  state  of  mind,  he  wont 
over  to  see  the  farmer. 

"  Can't  do  any  thing  for  you,"  said  Lee,  in  the  coolest 
way  imaginable,  on  Harding's  asking  for  a  settlement. 
"  Haven't  ten  dollars  in  cash  to  bless  myself  with,  let 
alone  a  hundred  and  fifty." 

Harding  felt  exceedingly  fretted  at  this  way  of  treat 
ing  him,  and  said,  quite  sharply — 

"Pray,  Mr.  Lee,  when  do  you  intend  settling  my 
account  ?" 

"  Some  of  these  days,"  replied  the  fanner,  indif- 
ferently. 

"  That  way  of  doing  business  don't  suit  me.  I  want 
something  definite.  I  paid  the  cash  down  for  the 
shingles  that  cover  your  roof;  and  now  I  want  my 
money." 

"  Don't  get  excited,  Harding :  it  won't  do  any  goxl," 
said  Lee.  "  The  man  doesn't  live  about  here  that  can 
drive  this  horse  ^  so  you  needn't  try." 

This  was  more  than  the  carpenter  could  bear.  Bit- 
terly did  he  retort  upon  the  farmer,  and  left  him, 
finally,  with  threats  of  an  immediate  resort  to  law  for 
the  recovery  of  his  bill. 

When  Harding  and  his  wife  met  at  dinner-time,  each 
perceived  in  the  other's  countenance  a  troubled  aspect. 
Harding's  heavy  brows  were  drawn  down ;  and  about  his 
wife's  mouth  was  the  old  look  of  fretfulness  that  had  so 
often  repelled  him.  For  the  first  time,  he  passed  the 
cradle  without  even  looking  at  Grace,  whose  round, 
white  arms  had  commenced  flying  the  moment  she 
heard  the  sound  of  his  footsteps  across  the  threshold; 
and,  going  into  the  yard,  he  took  up  the  axe,  and  com- 
menced splitting  up  a  stick  of  cord  wood.  This  done, 
he  came  back  into  the  house,  again  passing  the  cradle, 
acd  sitting  down,  in  moody  silence,  at  the  dinner-table, 
to  which  their  meal  had  already  been  served,  While 

5» 


54        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


cutting  up  the  meat,  and  helping  it  around,  the  low, 
sweet,  coaxing  murmur  of  the  baby's  voice  sounded  in 
his  ears.  The  cradle  was  only  a  little  way  from  him, 
and  so  turned  that  Grace  could  see  him.  And  there 
she  lay,  fluttering  her  arms,  and  cooing,  and  trying  all 
means  in  her  power  to  arrest  his  attention.  Yet,  reso- 
lutely, he  kept  his  eyes  turned  away  from  the  imploring 
little  one.  But  weaker,  each  moment,  became  his  reso- 
lution ;  for  her  voice  came  to  his  ears  like  the  music  of 
David's  harp  to  Saul,  driving  out  the  evil  spirit.  At 
last  he  could  resist  the  babe's  pleadings  no  longer. 
Almost  stealthily,  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her.  One 
look  was  enough.  The  tenderness  of  a  mother  filled  his 
heart.  So  sudden  was  the  revulsion  of  his  feelings,  that, 
for  a  few  moments,  he  was  bewildered.  But  of  one 
thing  he  was  soon  clearly  conscious,  and  that  was  ot 
having  Grace  in  his  arms,  and  hugging  her  almost  pas- 
sionately to  his  heart. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        55   ', 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  suddenness  with  which  Harding  arose  from  the 
table  and  caught  up  the  child,  which  he  had  not  seemed 
to  notice  since  he  came  in,  and  the  eager  way  in  which 
he  held  it  to  his  heart,  naturally  excited  the  surprise  of 
his  wife,  who  looked  at  him  wonderingly.  His  indif- 
ference toward  Grace  had  not  been  unobserved  by  Mrs. 
Harding.  She  saw  that  he  was  in  one  of  his  unhappy 
moods — that  a  dark  cloud  was  on  his  spirit — and  that 
only  a  word  was  needed  to  awaken  a  fierce  storm.  And, 
more  than  all  this,  the  message  brought  from  the  store- 
keeper by  Andrew  had  so  deeply  angered  her,  that  her 
mind  was  still  panting  under  the  excitement,  and  still 
fretting  itself  with  indignant  thoughts;  so  that  she,  too, 
was  ready  for  strife.  It  had  been  as  much  as  she  could 
do  to  keep  back  from  her  lips  words  of  sharp  reproof, 
for  the  cruel  indifference  manifested  by  her  husband 
toward  the  pleading  babe :  most  probably,  a  few  minutes 
longer  of  forced  neglect  on  his  part,  would  have  brought 
down  upon  him  a  storm  of  words  that  would  have  marred 
every  thing  for  little  Grace,  and  made  her  presence,  in 
the  household,  ever  after,  a  cause  of  angry  contention. 
Happily,  the  quick-tempered  wife  controlled  her  strug- 
gling  impulses  long  enough  for  better  influences  to  pre- 
vail.  As  she  looked  at  the  singular  exhibition  of  feeling 
in  her  husband,  she  was  touched  by  softer  emotions. 
The  incident  gave  her  a  deeper  insight  into  his  charac- 
ter,  while  it  quickened  her  own  thoughts  into  self- 
reproaches  for  the  misjudgment  which  had  wellnigb 
fanned  a  few  embers  into  fiercely  burning  flames  of 
discord 


56        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


As  for  Harding,  now  that  the  repressed  tenderness  o( 
his  heart  had  free  course,  he  found  himself  carried  away 
as  by  a  flood.  The  babe  in  his  arms  felt  more  precious 
to  him  than  life  itself;  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  could 
never  be  done  hugging  it  to  his  heart.  When,  at 
length,  he  reseated  himself  at  the  dinner-table,  with 
Grace  on  his  knee,  and  looked  over  to  his  wife,  the  cloud 
j!  had  passed  from  her  countenance. 

"  What  possessed  you,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  in  a    \ 
pleasant  voice,  "  to  neglect  the  sweet  child  so  ?    She  was    s 
s     almost  dying  to  have  you  notice  her." 

Harding  did  not  answer,  but  merely  drew  Grace  close    f 
against  him,  and,  bending  over,  talked  to  her  in  fond,    ', 
^     childish  language. 

A  calm  followed  this  little  exciting  episode,  in  which    < 
]     both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding  looked  and  felt  sober,  but 
not  ill-natured.    After  dinner, -as  Harding  was  preparing 
to  leave  the  house,  he  took  some  silver  change  from  his 
pocket,  and  handing  it  to  his  wife,  said — 

"  Our  bill  at  the  store  is  getting  rather  large.  Don't  \ 
i  send  for  any  thing  without  the  money.  Here  are  two  i 
^  dollars  and  a  half  for  any  little  thing  you  may  want." 

The  change  in  his  wife's  countenance  as  he  said  this 
arrested  Harding's  attention. 

"  What's  the  matter  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 
"  Nothing  much,"  she  replied,  her  face  flushing  as  she 
spoke.     "  Only  I'm  glad  you've  left  me  some  money,  for 

ve're  out  of  flour,  and — and" 

"  And  what  ?"  She  paused,  stammering,  and  Hard- 
ing saw  that  something  was  wrong. 

"  Nothing,  only  Willits  sent  word  this  morning,  that 
he  wouldn't  let  us  have  any  thing  more,  unless  we  paid 
the  money  down !" 

"  He  did !"     A  fierce  light  burned  instantly  in  the 
eye  of  Jacob   Hariing,   and  his  lips  were  drawn  back 
against  his  teeth. 
• 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        57 


"  Yes, '  said  his  wife,  forcing  herself  to  speak  in  a 
mild  and  soothing  way ;  "  but  no  matter,  Jacob.  Let  us 
try  to  get  on  without  asking  for  credit  anywhere.  I'll 
do  rny  best  to  economize  in  every  thing.  It  chafes  me 
to  be  under  obligations  to  anybody,  and  especially  to  the 
Willits.  I  don't  like  any  of  the  family." 

"  That's  talking  outright,  Mary  I"  said  Harding,  the 
threatening  scowl  on  his  heavy  brow  suddenly  breaking 
away ;  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  thrust  his  hand  a  second 
time  into  his  trousers  pocket,  and  drew  out  a  handful  of 
small  change,  which  he  counted  over. 

"  Here  are  three  dollars  more,"  he  added.     "  It's  all 
the  money  I  have  just  now,  and  may  be  all  1  shall  receive 
£     this  week.     Make  it  go  as  far  as  you  can." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  will  do  that,  Jacob,"  replied  his 
<;    wife,  kindly  and  earnestly. 

"  Wouldn't  trust  us  any  more  !"     Harding' s  mind  re- 

>    turned  to  this  hard,  unpleasant,  mortifying  fact.     "  Very 

J    well — so  let  it  be.     He's  had  a  good  deal  of  my  money 

ff    in  his  time — I  hardly  think  he  will  get  as  much  in  the 

j    future.     Don't  you  buy  any  thing  there  that  you  can  do 

s'    without.     The  next  time  I  go  over  to  Beechwood,  I  will 

lay  in  a  good  stock  of  things,  if  I  happen  to  havo  the 

money.     I  saw  Lee  to-day,  and  tried  to  get  him  to  settle 

(     that  bill  of  his ;   but  he  put  me  off  again,  and  is  more  in- 

J     different  about  it  than  ever.     I  got  out  of  all  patience, 

I;     and  threatened  to  put  the  sheriff  on  him.     It  will  have 

?     to  come  to  this  sooner  or  later;  and  the  quicker  it  is 

done,  the  quicker  I  shall  get  my  money." 

"  Couldn't  you  trade  off  the  account  to  Willits,  and 
thus  save  a  world  of  trouble  ?"  suggested  the  wife. 

Mr  Harding  caught  at  this  suggestion,  and,  after 
turning  it  over  in  his  mind  for  a  few  moments,  said — 

"  I  don't  know,  Mary,  but  that  might  be  done.  Now 
that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  I  remember  hearing  some-- 
body say  that  Willi's  was  about  buying  that  house  and 


58        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


j  acre  lot  where  Jones  lives.  You  know  it  belongs  to  Mr. 
Lee.  There's  no  doubt  in  the  world  but  that  he  could 
settle  my  account  in  the  transaction.  I'll  see  him  about 
it  this  very  afternoon." 

"  Do,  Jacob,"  answered  his  wife,  encouragingly.  "  It  > 
will  be  such  a  relief  to  have  this  all  off  our  minds." 

In  spite  of  his  indignation  against  Willits,  Harding 
went  direct  to  his  store.  The  latter,  on  seeing  him 
enter,  made  up  his  mind  for  a  sharp  passage  of  words 
with  the  fiery  tempered  carpenter.  Still,  he  managed  to 
receive  him  with  a  forced  smile. 

"  How  much  have  you  against  me  on  your  books  ?" 
inquired  Harding,  speaking  firmly,  and  with  a  sober  <; 
countenance,  yet  repressing,  as  far  as  possible,  all  ap-  jj 
pearance  of  anger. 

The  storekeeper,  affecting  a  pleasant  manu^r,  turned  < 
over  his  ledger,  and,  glancing  at  the  account,  »vhich  was  £ 
already  footed  up,  replied — 

"  One  hundred  and  fourteen  dollars." 

"  So  much  as  that  ?"     Harding  showed  sur]Hse. 

"I  will  make  you  out  a  bill  of  items,  day  -<ad  date,  ;j 
and  you  can  examine  the  account.  I  presume  jrou  will  i 
find  every  charge  correct."  ^ 

"I  expected  to  have  paid  this  long  ago,"  s^id  the    ! 
carpenter,   "but-  have   been   disappointed   in  getting  a 
large  bill.     To-day  I  tried  my  best  to  collect,  bwt  I'm 
afraid  there's  no  chance  for  me,  unless  I  go  to  law,  and  I 
don't  want  to  do  that." 

"  Whose  account  is  it  ?"  inquired  "Willits. 

'  The  one  I  have  against  Lee  for  roofing  hij  house, 
and  repairing  his  barn." 

"  Is  it  possible  he  hasn't  paid  that  yet  ?" 

"  Not  a  cent  of  it." 

The  storekeeper  looked  serious  for  a  few  mounts, 
then,  shaking  his  head,  he  remarked —  / 

«  That's  not  right  in  Lee." 


J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        59 


"  No,  it  is  not  right,"  said  Harding,  warmly.  "  If  he 
\  had  paid  me,  I  would  not  now  be  in  debt  a  single 
\  dollar." 

"  Have  you  any  objection  to  transferring  your  account 
\  to  me  ?"  Willits  hesitated  a  little,  as  if  fearful  the  pro- 

<  position  would  not  be  received  with  favour.     "I  havo 
!>    eome  business   transactions   with   Lee,  in  which,  most 
I;    probably,  I  could  manage  to  include  your  bill." 

jl  "  The  very  thing  I  thought  of  proposing  to  you,"  said  5 
jj  Harding.  "I  understand  you  are  about  buying  the  ^ 
i  property  now  occupied  by  Jones ;  and  it  has  occurred  to  ^ 
1  me  that  you  might  save  my  account  in  the  purchase,  £ 
I  thus  obliging  me  and  getting  a  settlement  of  your  own  \ 
{  bill  at  the  same  time."  \ 

s        "  It  can  all  be  done,  no  doubt,"  replied  the  store-     '<, 
keeper.     "  Lee  has  offered  the  house  and  grounds  at  a 
fair  price,  and  is  anxious  for  me  to  buy — so  anxious, 
that  a  proposition  to  take  your  claim  against  him  in  part 
\    payment  will  be  no  impediment  to  the  bargain.     The 
(    best  way  for  you  to  proceed  will  be  to  get  his  note  in     'I 
]    settlement.     He'll  give  that  readily  enough,  in  order  to     £ 
(    gain  time,  and  get  rid  of  the  annoyance  of  being  dunned.     ;! 
j;    This  note  you  can  endorse  to  me,  and  I  will  pay  it  over 

<  to  him.'' 

Perfectly  satisfactory  to  both  parties  was  the  proposed     jj 
arrangement,  and  the  two  men  separated  in  much  better     ',; 
humour  with  themselves  and  each  other  than  when  they     j,' 
I     met.     During  the  afternoon,  Harding  called  again  on     ;! 
J     Mr.  Lee,  who  readily  acceded  to  his  request,  and  gave     !> 
him    his   note,    at   six   months,    in    settlement   of    the 
account. 

"  Pleasant  news,  Mary,"  said  the  carpenter,   as   he 
jarae  home  at  sundown.     "  My  name  is  off  of  Willits*     '( 
Books."  £ 

"  OfT  of  his  books  !     How,  Jacob  ?"     Mrs.  Harding 
did  not  we  his  meaning  clearly 


60        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"  I've  settled  his  account." 
"  Have  you  ?     Oh  !  I'm  so  glad." 
"  And  better  still,  Mary :  he  owes  me  thirty-six  dol- 
lars, which  I  have  agreed  to  take  out  of  his  store,  as  we 
Jfcmt  things  in  his  line." 

"  It  is  pleasant  news,  indeed,  Jacob.     But  how  did  all 
this  come  to  pass  ?" 

"  Just  in  the  way  you  suggested.  Willits  has  taken  t 
my  bill  against  Lee,  and  credited  me  with  the  difference  ' 
between  that  and  the  account  on  his  books." 

"  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad  :  it  has  taken  such  a  load  off  of 
me,"  said   Mrs.  Harding.     "I  don't  believe   Mr.  Lee 
would  ever  have  paid  the  bill  without  your  suing  him ; 
and   I  dread  lawsuits  above  every  thing :    they  always     ' 
bring  trouble  to  both  sides." 

Already,  Grace  was  in  the  great,  strong  arms  of  the 

carpenter;  and  Lotty,  between  whom  and  her  father  a    i> 

;    new  and  gentler   relation    had   existed    ever   since    the    \ 

I    stranger-babe  came   to  them,  was  leaning  on  his  knee    ; 

J     and  playing  with  the  happy  little  one.  < 

At  this  moment,  a  form  darkened  the  door.     It  was    ! 

<>     the  form  of  a  woman,  just  past  life's  middle  age.     Her 

<>     countenance  was  strongly  marked — the  lines  as  indica- 

«;     live  of  patient  endurauet  as  great  suffering.     She  was 

tall  in  person,  with  the  carriage  of  one  who  had  moved 

I;     ill  polished  circles. 

•'  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  she,  as  she  advanced  one 
£  foot  inside  of  the  door,  "  how  far  it  is  to  IJeechwood  ?" 

"  Nearly  two  miles,  ma'am,"  replied  Mrs.  Harding, 
j;  who  had  turned,  on  perceiving  the  presence  of  a 
s  stranger. 

'/         "  So  far  away  ?"  said  the  woman,  in  apparent  concern 
';     •*  I  can't  possibly  reach  there  before  dark." 

"  You  certainly  cannot,"  replied  Mrs.  Harding.  Sbe 
!;  thoii  added  "  Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  yourself?" 


THE     INC.  EL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  61 


"  Thank  you,"  returned  the  stranger,  stepping  across 
ihe  threshold,  and  advancing  a  few  paces  into  the  room.       > 

"  What  a  dear,  sweet  babe  !"  she  said,  as,  on  taking  a 
chair,  she  fixed  her  eyes,  with  a  tender,  admiring  gaze,     \ 
upon  the  babe  that  still  remained  in  Harding's  arms.     ; 
She  could  not  have  offered  a  remark  better  calculated  to 
make  a  favourable  impression  on  the  minds  of  the  car- 
\    penter  and  his  wife. 

|        "  What  is  her  name  ?"  she  asked,  after  a  moment's     j; 
,'    pause. 

"  We  call  her  Grace,"  replied  Mrs.  Harding,  all  her 
countenance  lit  up  with  pleasure. 

"  Grace — Grace,"  said  the  woman,  half  speaking  to  ', 
>f  herself,  in  an  abstracted  way.  "  A  beautiful  name,"  '> 
\  she  added;  "none  more  beautiful."  And  then  she  \ 
'/  bent  forward,  and  gazed  at  the  child  with  such  an 
£  earnest,  tender  expression,  that  Mrs.  Harding,  who  was 
>  observing  her  intently,  felt  a  troubled  consciousness  that 
^  she  knew  something  of  the  child,  and  did  not  now  look 
•;  upon  it  for  the  first  time  in  her  life. 
f>  There  was  about  the  stranger  a  bearing  that  inspired 
'  involuntary  respect.  Her  calm,  intelligent  eyes  looked 
'<.  into  those  of  the  carpenter  and  his  wife  in  a  way  that 
<  caused  them  to  feel  a  singular  deference ;  and  when  she 
!;  referred  again  to  the  long  distance  she  had  still  to  go, 
;  and  spoke,  in  a  troubled  voice,  of  the  gathering  darkness, 
Harding  said,  looking  at  his  wife — 

"If  the  lady  will  accept  what  poor  accommodations 
^  our  house  will  afford,  she  need  not  go  to  Beechwood 
|  to-night.  What  say  you,  Mary  ?" 

"  She  is  welcome  to  the  best  we  have  to  give,"  was 
the  answer  of  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  I  did  not  expect  this,"  said  the  woman,  evidently 
touched  by  the  proffered  hospitality;  "nor  do  I  know 
whether  it  will  be  altogether  right  for  me  to  trespass  on 
6 


62  THE   A>7GEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


your  kindness.     If  there  is  a  respectable  tavern  in  the 
neighbourhood' ' 

Harding  shook  his  head,  as  he  answered — 

"There  is  no  tavern  about  here  but  Stark's,  and  I 
couldn't  advise  you  to  go  there.  If  you  will  remain  in 
our  poor  home,  believe  yourself,  entirely  welcome." 

"Let  me  take  your  bonnet   and  shawl,"   said  Mrs.     \ 
Harding,  encouragingly;  and  she  reached  out  her  hands 
to  receive  them. 

The  woman  hesitated  only  a  moment,  and  then  re-  $ 
moving  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  gave  them  to  her  hostess, 
who  took  them  into  the  adjoining  chamber.  As  Mrs.  | 
Harding  returned  to  the  apartment  she  had  just  left,  she  { 
was  struck  with  the  singular  beauty  of  the  woman's  s 
countenance-^-bearing  though  it  did  the  marks  of  time —  ;> 
as  well  as  by  the  depth  and  brilliancy  of  her  eyes,  that  ! 
were  fixed,  almost  as  if  by  fascination,  on  the  infant  < 
which  still  lay  against  the  bosom  of  her  husband. 

All  parties  were  now,  for  a  time,  in  a  state  of  embar-  ? 
rassnient.  Harding  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  in  the  < 
presence  of  the  woman,  whose  eyes,  whenever  they  ^ 
rested  upon  him,  seemed  as  if  trying  to  read  his  very 
thoughts;  and  the  stranger,  conscious  of  the  effect  her  >' 
entrance  had  produced,  did  not  feel  altogether  at  ease. 

"  Let  me  have  that  dear  babe,"  said  the  woman, 
reaching  out  her  hands  toward  Grace. 

The  little  one  shrunk  closer  against  the  breast  of 
Harding,  while  a  shade,  almost  of  fear,  darkened  her 
face. 

"  Won't  you  come  ?" 

Tbe  woman  spoke  in  soft  and  winning  tones,  and  still 
extended  her  hands;  but  the  babe  could  not  be  lured 
from  its  place. 

At  this  moment,  Andrew  came  in,  rudely,  dashing 
his  hat  upon  the  floor,  and  pushing  his  sister  Lucy  aside 
BO  roughly  as  almost  to  throw  her  down.  Lucy  gave  an 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        63 


s  angry  scream  at  this  violence,  and  called  her  brother 
£  some  vile  name.  The  woman  turned,  half  startled,  at 
this  sudden  outbreak,  and  fixed  her  dark,  penetrating 
eyes  on  Andrew,  who,  now  first  conscious  of  the  pre- 
sence of  a  stranger,  became  quiet,  and  shrunk  away  into 
the  farther  part  of  the  room,  the  eyes  of  the  woman  still 

<  following  him. 

"  Is  that  the  place  for  your  hat,  sir  ?" 

Anger,  as  well  as  mortification,  caused  Harding  to 

J    speak  roughly  to  the  boy.     The  woman  seemed  quite  as 

s    much  startled  by  the  voice  of  the  father  as  she  had  been 

by  the  rudeness  of  the  son.     The  look  she  threw  upon 

;    him  was  timid — almost   fearful;    and  her   eyes   passed 

!    rapidly  from  his  dark,   threatening  face,    to  the  calm, 

sweet,  confiding  countenance  of  the  infant,  who  seemed 

not  in  the  least  disturbed  by  the  sudden  gust  of  passion 

which  had  come  sweeping  over  the  little  household. 

Andrew  looked  sulky  and  stubborn  for  a  few  moments 

<  only;  then  he  returned  to  the  place  where  his  hat  lay 
s    upon  the  floor,  and  taking  it  up,  hung  it  upon  a  nail. 

<  In  the  next  minute  he  stood  beside  the  baby,  who,  the 
£    instant  she  saw  him,   arose    from  her   reclining   posi- 
|j    tion,   reached  out  her  little  hands  to  him,  and  almost 
>    springing  into  his  arms,  gave  voice  to  her  pleasure  and 
j     affection  in  sounds  as  well  understood  as  if  the  utterance 

had   been   in   words.     Andrew  bore   her  in  a  sort  of 
triumph  about  the  room ;  while  the  stern  features  of  his 

<  father  gradually  relaxed,  as  his  eyes  followed  the  happy     £ 
I     babe,  until  no  trace  remained  therein  of  the  anger  which     "/ 
\     disfigured  it  a  little  while  before.     Lucy,  too,  forgot  her     ' 
\     indignation  against  Andrew,  and,   moving  close  beside     \ 

her  brother,  clapped  her  hand  at  Grace,  and  talked  to     $ 
her  with  a  voice  so  full  of  tenderness,  that  the  stranger 

<  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  hardly  crediting  the  fact  that 
she  was  the  same  little  girl  who,  scarcely  a  moment  be«     5 
lore,  had  startled  L  ?r  with  a  shrill  cry  of  anger. 


64        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


Silent,  yet  attentively  observant  of  all  that   passed, 
!;     did  the  visiter  now  remain,  until  supper  was  ready,  and 
she   was   invited  to  join   the  family  in  their  evening 
meal. 

"  Do  you  reside  in  Beechwood  ?"  inquired  Harding, 
<  addressing  the  stranger,  soon  after  they  had  gathered 
£  around  the  table. 

"No,  sir,"  was  her  simple  answer,  somewhat  coolly 
j;  made,  as  though  she  wished  to  repel  inquiry. 

"  You  have  friends  there  ?"  said  Harding,  who,  as  he 
>  observed  the  stranger  more  narrowly,  felt  his  curiosity  in 
regard  to  her  increasing.  Particularly  did  her  manner 
of  looking  at  the  child  excite  his  attention :  to  him  it 
seemed  as  if  she  made  an  effort  to  conceal  the  interest 
really  felt  by  her  in  the  little  one. 

"  Yes,  I  have  friends  there,"  she  replied ;  and  then 
said,  almost  in  the  same  breath,  "  How  old  is  your  little 
Grace  ?" 

Harding  looked  at  his  wife,  and  she  looked  at  him. 
{{  Both  seemed  taken  by  surprise  at  the  question;  and 
s  both  were  slightly  confused. 

"  How  old  is  it,  Mary  ?"  asked  Harding. 
"  About  nine  weeks,"  replied  Mrs.  Harding,  her  face 
\     receiving  a  shade  of  colour  as  she  spoke. 

The  stranger  looked  at  her  intently.  Mrs.  Harding' s 
t  eyes  fell  under  the  steady  gaze. 

"  A  bright  child  for  nine  weeks  old,"  remarked  the 
woman. 

Then-  she  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  thought,  and  once 
or  twice  sighed  deeply.  After  the  supper-table  was 
cleared  away,  and  the  children  were  all  in  bed,  her  man- 
ner underwent  a  change.  She  was  now  entirely  at  her 
ease,  and  conversed  in  so  attractive  a  way  with  the  car- 
penter and  his  wife,  that  both  found  themselves  strangely 
drawn  toward  her,  and  ready  to  answer  freely  in  regard 
to  their  personal  affairs,  about  which  she  inquired  with 


L 


THE  ANOEl.  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        60 


an  interest  they  felt  to  be  genuine.  About  people  in  the 
}  neighbourhood  she  also  asked  questions;  and  when  re- 
ference was  made  to  Stark  the  tavern-keeper,  she  spoke 
strongly  of  the  danger  of  visiting  such  houses  as  he 
kept. 

"  It  gratified  me  more  than  I  can  express,"  she  said, 

looking  at  Harding,  "to  find  you  at  home,  during  the 

!;     evening,   with  your   family.     There   is  every  thing   to 

hope,  for  a  sober,  industrious  man.     Your  struggle  with 

the  world  may  be  hard  for  a  time,  but  keep  a  brave 

;>     heart.      With    temperance,    industry,    and   frugality    at 

home,  you  are  sure  to  rise  above  your  present  position. 

It  is  our  first  meeting,  and  it  may  be  our  last ;   but  if  we 

i    ever  do  meet  again,  I  shall  expect  to  find  that  Andrew 

5     Harding  has  taken  a  long   stride  in  the  way  of  pros- 

$     purity." 

There  was  more  in  her  manner  than  in  her  words 
that  impressed  the  mind  of  the  carpenter.  But  no  mat- 
ter in  which  lay  the  influence,  Harding  felt  new  pur- 
poses growing  up  in  his  heart ;  and  he  even  said  to  him- 
self, "  If  ever  we  do  meet  again,  it  shall  be  as  you 
predict." 

At  an  early  hour,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding  retired, 
after  having  shown  their  guest  to  the  little  spare  room 
kept  for  visitors. 

"  I  must  have  one  look  at  that  dear  babe  of  yours," 
she  said,  as  she  was  about  leaving  them  for  the  night. 

Mrs.  Harding  led  her  into  her  own  chamber,  where 
Grace  was  sleeping,  and  drew  down  the  bed-clothes  from 
the  face  of  the  infant.  The  woman  bent  low  over  it, 
and,  for  a  time  that  seemed  long  to  Mrs.  Harding,  stood 
gazing  upon  the  calm  face  before  her,  so  full  of  heavenly 
innocence.  There  were  tears  on  her  lashes,  when,  with 
a  deep,  quivering  sigh,  she  lifted  herself  from  the  babe. 
Placing  i  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  Mrs.  Harding,  and 
6* 


J   GG        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD 

raising  a  finger  slowly  upward,  she  said,  in  a  tone  so 
solemn,  that  it  thrilled  to  the  heart  of  her  auditor — 

"  God  has  committed  to  your  care  one  of  the  precious     j 
ones  whose  angels  are  ever  before  his  face.     Oh !  never 
forget  your  high  responsibility.     Love,    cherish,   keep 
the  dear  one." 

Tho  woman's  voice  faltered.  She  made  an  attempt 
to  say  more;  but,  as  if  conscious  that  she  was  betray- 
ing too  much  feeling,  turned  away  quickly,  and  re- 
tired to  the  little  chamber  that  had  been  assigned 
to  her. 

On  the  next  morning,  breakfast  was  all  ready,  ere  the 
stranger  joined  the  family. 

"  Had  you  not  better  call  her  ?"  said  Harding  to  his 
wife. 

Mrs.  Harding  stepped  to  the  door  of  the  guest-cham- 
ber, and  tapped  lightly.  She  tapped  a  second  time,  for 
there  was  neither  movement  nor  reply ;  yet  all  remained 
Bilent.  A  louder  summons  was  answered  only  by  its 
own  echo. 

Wondering  at  this,  Mrs.  Harding  lifted  the  latch,  and 
pushed  open  the  door. 

"There  is  no  one  here,  Andrew,"  she  said,  in  a 
startled  voice.  ^ 

"  No  one,  Mary  I" 

"  Even  the  bed  is  not  tumbled  !    What  can  it  mean  ?" 

The  carpenter  now  stood  beside  his  wife,  and  both 
entered  the  room  together.  There  was  no  evidence 
whatever  that  any  one  had  passed  the  night  there.  On 
the  little  dressing-table  was  a  narrow  slip  of  white  paper, 
which  Mrs.  Harding  caught  up.  On  it  was  written 
simply  these  words — 

'•'  Grace  Harding.  Ten  weeks  old  to-day.  June  4th, 
18—." 

"It  is  very  strange  !"  said  the  carpenter,  with  a  look 
of  doubt  and  wonder  on  his  countenance. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        67 


"  Very  strange  I"  echoed  his  wife,  in  a  troubled 
roice. 

"  Who  can  she  be  ?" 

"One,"  answered  Mrs.  Harding,  "who  knows  all 
ibout  our  little  Grace.  I  felt  that  it  was  so  last 
night  " 

And  weak,  pale,  and  trembling,  she  sunk  into  a 
chair. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  sudden  appearance  of  the  woman,  her  singular 
conduct,  and  mysterious  departure,  were  new  facts  in 
the  strange  series  of  events,  that  were  almost  bewilder- 
ing the  minds  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding.  Something  in 
this  woman's  manner  had  strongly  impressed  them  both, 
and  now,  when  they  thought  of  her,  it  was  with  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  constraint,  as  if  she  were  present,  and 
closely  observing  their  actions.  That  she  bore  some 
kind  of  relationship  to  the  babe  was  no  longer  a  question 
in  their  thoughts;  and  it  was  equally  clear,  that  her 
visit  was  by  no  means  accidental  or  purposeless. 

A  pressure  upon  the  feelings  was  a  natural  conse-  i 
quence;  not  so  much  a  troubled  pressure,  as  a  certain 
thoughtful  sobriety,  favourable  to  self-control,  and  pro-  |j 
ductive  of  wiser  counsels  in  the  minds  of  both  the  car-  •; 
pcnter  and  his  quick-tempered  wife.  Each  had  need  of  ^ 
a  preparation  like  this,  for  the  day  was  to  prove  one  of  £ 
more  than  ordinary  trial.  < 

From  some  cause,  Andrew,  their  oldest  boy,  naturally      jj 
of  an  exceedingly  perverse  temper,  was  ill-natured  and      5 


THE* ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD 


quarrelsome  beyond  his  wont,  on  this  particular  morn- 
ing.    Since  rising,  he  had  not  ceased  to  interfere  with 
\     Lucy   and    Philip,    and    this    created    a    strife    among 
the  three,  which  the  mother  vainly  sought  to  subdue. 
Not  until  the  father,  with  a  stern  threat  and  a  smart     ij 
blow,  (.ommanded  the  overbearing  lad  to  cease  from  his     \ 
annoyance  of  his  brother  and  sister,  was  the  discord 
(     abated.     And  then  the  evil  in  the  boy's  heart  remained    ;> 
\     strong  as  ever.     Only  the  fear  of  instant  punishment    J 

kept  down  the  spirit  of  rebellion. 

<         Soon  after  his  father  left  for  the  shop,  his  mother  said 
>     to  him — 

"  Andrew,  go  over  to  the  store,  and  get  me  two  pounds 
of  sugar  and  two  pounds  of  rice ;  and  go  quickly,  for  it's    ; 
nearly  school-time  now." 

"  Where's  the  money  ?"     Andrew  spoke  very  rudely.      <; 
"  Never  mind  the  money,"  said  Mrs.  Harding.     "  Go    > 
and  do  as  I  tell  you." 

"  'Taint  no  use.     Mr.  Willits  said  yesterday  that  you    <! 
needn't  send  for  trust  any  more." 

"  Go,  this  minute,  you  little" 

^         The   angry  mother  caught  the  profane   epithet  just     '•', 

leaping  from  her  tongue,  and  kept  it  back  from  utter- 
^     ance. 

"  'Taint  no  use,  I  tell  you,"  persisted  Andrew.     "  Pie 

;|     said" 

"  Off  with  you,  this  instant !" 

And  Mrs.  Harding,  unable  to  restrain  her  indignation, 
1;  made  two  or  three  rapid  strides  toward  the  boy,  who, 
£  seeing  from  her  face  that  he  was  in  danger,  darted 
!j  from  the  house,  and  went  away  toward  the  store.  After 
\  being  gone  long  enough  to  have  done  the  errand  twice, 
he  came  loitering  back,  without  the  articles  for  which  he 
'/  had  been  sent. 

"Where's  the  sugar  and  rice?"  asked  his  mother, 
looking  at  him  sternly  as  ho  came  in. 


"  What  did  he  say  ?" 

tt    l-T^i     TWOTif^wl       4-f\      tmrvm      TT-Vir\*»n       *V»TT      mrtTi  £»TT      nrna  •      on/4          S 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        69   j 

"  I  told  you  so,"  was  his  irritating  reply. 
"  Told  me  wbat  ?"  said  Mrs.  Harding. 
••"Why,    that  you  needn't  send  there  for  trust  any    > 
more." 

u  Have  you  been  to  Mr.  Willits'  ?"  asked  his  mother, 
5     glowing  suddenly  calm,  and  speaking  very  firmly. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I  have,"  was  the  unhesitating  answer.       \ 

"  And  you  saw  Mr.  Willits  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  And  asked  him  for  the  sugar  and  rice  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

j 

"He  wanted  to  know  where  my  money  was;  and  < 
when  I  said  I  had  none,  he  told  me  to  go  home  and  tell  ; 
you  that  he  didn't  charge  things  any  more."  > 

All  this  was  spoken  by  Andrew  with  a  steady  voice    ? 
and  eye,  and  in  a  manner  that  but  ill  concealed  a  spirit 
j;     of  triumph. 

For  a  little  while,  a  tempest  of  indignant  anger  raged 
in  the  breast  of  Mrs.  Harding. 

"He'll   be    sorry   for  that,    or   I   am   not  a   living    ij 
;i    woman !"  she  muttered  to  herself,  as  soon  as  a  little 
"/     self-possession  was  obtained,   and  thought  ran  partially 
clear   once    more.     "  Here's   the   money,"    she   added, 
aloud,  speaking  to  Andrew,  as  she  drew  from  her  pocket    ' 
i    some  change ;  "go  back,  as  swift  as  your  legg  will  carry    I 

you,  aud  get  two  pounds  of  rice  and  two  pounds  of 
'•     sugar." 

The  boy  took  the  money,  and  went  loitering  indif- 
ferently away ;  but,  ere  he  had  gone  ten  paces,  a  switch 
was  laid  smartly  over  his  shoulders  by  his  mother,  who 
could  no  longer  control  her  anger  against  him.  The 
effect  was  all  she  wished  to  produce.  He  sprung  from 
her  like  a  frightened  young  deer,  and  ran  the  whole  dis- 
tance to  the  store  In  returning,  he  resumed  the  old 

J 


70        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


pace,  and  managed  to  get  back  at  least  half  an  hoar 
after  school-time. 

"  It's  so  late,  mother,  can't  I  stay  at  home  to-day  ?" 
This  was  his  response  to  a  hurried  order  to  start  off  im- 
mediately for  school.  "  Mr.  Long  will  keep  me  in." 

"  I  don't  care  if  he  does.  It  will  serve  you  right. 
No ;  you  can't  stay  home." 

The  lad  threw  himself  down  on  the  door-step,  and 
began  to  cry. 

Poor  Mrs.  Harding!  Notwithstanding  the  influence 
of  recent  events,  the  causes  of  irritation  were  too  many 
jl  and  too  strong  for  her.  Almost  since  daylight  had  this 
perverse  boy  been  making  assaults  upon  her  patience. 
Several  times  she  had  lost  the  self-control  she  was 
j  struggling  to  maintain,  and  given  way  to  bursts  of 
passion,  and  as  often  had  she  striven  to  force  back  into 
quietude  the  disturbed  impulses  that  darkened  her 
spirit.  Now,  her  pent-up  anger  blazed  forth  like  a 
fierce  flame.  Seizing  a  stout  switch,  she  sprung  toward 
Andrew,  and  commenced  lashing  him  with  all  her 
•strength.  Her  countenance  was  that  of  a  fury.  For  a 
short  'time,  Andrew,  who  had  great  powers  of  endurance, 
bore  the  smarting  strokes,  thinking  to  tire  his  mother 
out;  but  in  this  he  was  mistaken.  She  was  possessed 
of  cruel  spirits;  and,  in  the  blind  passion  with  which 
they  inspired  her,  would  have  struck  on,  even  to  tht, 
endangering  of  his  life.  At  last,  with  a  yell  of  pain, 
'that  sounded  more  like  the  cry  of  some  animal  than  a 
human  being,  Andrew  started  up  from  the  door-step,  and 
ran  off  beyond  the  reach  of  his  mother's  arm. 

"  Now,  away  to  school  with  you,  or  I'll  give  you  aa 
much  more !"  cried  Mrs.  Harding,  as  she  advanced  reso- 
lutely toward  the  place  where  Andrew  paused  on  getting 
out  of  her  way. 

Finding  that  contention  with  his  mother,  under  pre- 
sent circumstances,  was  rather  too  serious  a  business 


THE  ANGEL  OP   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  7i 


Andrew  yielded  to  forces  he  was  not  able  to  resist,  and 
started  off  to  school,  conquered,  but  not  subdued  in 
spirit.  The  fire  of  his  mother's  anger  had  hardened  in- 
stead of  softening  him.  Rebellion  grew  rank  in  his 
young  breast,  as  he  moved  on  his  way ;  and  no  sooner 
was  he  out  of  sight,  than  he  sat  down  on  the  roadside  to 
deliberate  on  the  question  of  going  to  school  or  playing 
the  truant. 

It  was  some  time  after  Mrs.  Harding  returned  into  the 
house,  before  she  was  sufficiently  calm  to  reflect  at  all. 
The  storm,  though  brief,  had  raged  fiercely,  and  sad 
were  the  wrecks  it  left  behind — wrecks  of  peace  and  good 
resolutions.  Never  in  her  life  had  she  suffered  such  in- 
tense mental  pain  as  now — never  experienced  a  state  of 
mind  so  sad  and  self-condemnatory.  New  and  better 
states  had  been  forming,  and  they  had  brought  her 
within  the  sphere  of  higher  and  holier  influences.  It 
was  violence  to  these  that  occasioned  such  anguish  of 
spirit.  Good,  having  gained  a  place  in  her  heart,  might 
be  'overshadowed,  "but  not  cast  out.  When  the  storm 
raged,  it  could  retire  and  hide  itself  far  down  in  the 
j;  calmer  depths  of  her  spirit,  to  come  into  perception 
4  again  when  the  tempest  abated.  And  thus  it  was  now. 
>  The  good  was  hidden,  not  extinguished,  and  its  low 
\  voice  was  heard  as  soon  as  the  wild  shrieking  of  the 
<  storm  was  silent.  It  was  not  strong  enough  to  contend 
\  with  evil  when  evil  had  full  sway;  but,  like  the  sun- 
}  shine  and  the  gentle  dews,  it  possessed  a  restoring  and 
\  creating  power;  and,  like  them,  in  the  peaceful  days 
!;  and  quiet  nights,  it  went  on  with  its  heavenly  work  of 
\  rest  jration  and  recreation. 

What  a  deep  calm  reigned  in  the  household,  as  Mrs. 
\    Harding  came  back  among  her  younger  children,  who 
\    received  her  with  frightened  looks,  and  went  shrinking 
away  into  distant  corners — a  calmness  which,  by  its  con- 
trast, only  made  more  apparent  the  wild,  half-insane  ex- 


72        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


citement  from  which  every  nerve  of  her  spirit  was  still 
palpitating.     The  revulsion  in  Mrs.  Harding's  mind  was 
great.       The   first   rebuking   image    that    arose   in   her 
thoughts  was  that  of  the  stranger,  whose  coming  and  de- 
parture were  almost  like  the  changes  in  a  dream.     So 
vivid  was  this  impression,  that  she  almost  expected  to    5 
see  the  woman  enter,  and  fix  upon  her  those  deep,  dad    ] 
eyes,  whose  expression  she  could  never  forget. 

!;        An  unwonted  sound   came  now  upon  her  ears.     It 
arose  from   the   cradle.      The    eyes   of   Mrs.  Harding    £ 

s    sought  instantly  the  child.     Sweet  one !     There  was  a 

,;    look-  of  fear  on  her  baby  face — grievingly  her  lip  was 

<    curled — a  low  murmur  of  pain  was  audible. 

Tenderly,  very  tenderly,  was  the  infant  lifted  from  its 
cradle-bed ;  and  lovingly  was  it  pressed  to  the  bosom  of 
Mrs.  Harding.  Soothing  words  in  soothing  tones  were 
poured  into  its  ears  from  lips  that  touched  them  softly. 

As  Mrs.  Harding  sat  with  the  babe  held  close  against 
her  heart,  all  the  exciting  incidents  of  the  previous  half 
hour  passed  before  her  mind  in  rapid  review.  The  con- 
duct of  Andrew  had  been  very  bad,  and  he  needed  cor- 
rection ;  but  she  could  not  justify  her  own  action  in  the 
case,  nor  quiet  the  voice  of  self-reproach.  She  saw  that 
the  evil  in  her  only  excited  the  evil  in  him — that  angry 
words  hardened  him  into  stubborn  resistance.  She  felt 
sad,  too,  as  she  thought  of  the  cruel  stripes  she  had 
given  him — stripes  laid  on  with  the  full  strength  of  her 
strong  arm.  In  angry  resentment,  not  sorrowing  love, 
had  she  grasped  the  rod,  and  its  strokes  excited  only  a 
spirit  }f  rebellion.  Oh!  how  unhappy  she  felt — un- 
happy even  to  weeping.  Her  indignation  against  the 
storekeeper  was  but  a  feeble  flame  now.  She  felt  too 
deeply  humiliated  in  consequence  of  her  own  misdeeds 
to  cherish  anger  against  others. 

In  this  state  of  mind  the  morning  passed.     At  twelve    J 
o'clock,  Andrew  came  in  from  school,  gliding  through 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        73 


the  door  silently,  and  with  an  evident  desire  to  avoid 
notice.  Mrs.  Harding  said  nothing.  She  was  glad  to 
see  him  subdued  in  spirit,  and  felt  more  of  pity  toward 
the  boy  than  anger.  Her  husband  soon  followed,  as  it  't 
was  dinner-time.  His  brow  was  clouded.  Something 
\  had  gone  wrong  with  him  during  the  forenoon.  Silently 
!  and  moodily  he  sat  at  the  table,  eating  hurriedly,  aud 
taking  no  notice  of  any  one.  In  a  shorter  time  than 
usual,  he  finished  the  meal,  and,  rising,  was  about 
leaving  the  house,  when  Mrs.  Harding  said — 

"  Didn't  you  tell  me  to  send  to  the  store  for  any  thing 
I  might  want  ?" 

"  Certainly  I  did.     Why  ?" 

"  Because  Willits  refused  to  let  me  have  some  sugar 
and  rice,  this  morning,  without  the  money." 

"  Oh  no !     He  couldn't  have  done  that.     There  are 
thirty-six  dollars  to  my  account  on  his  books,  as  I  told 

i  you." 

"  Well,  he  did,  then ;  and  I  had  to  send  the  money 
before  I  could  get  what  I  wanted." 

Harding  waited  to  hear  no  more.     ''  I'll  soon  settle 

that !"    he  exclaimed,  as   he  went  hur^Uy  from   the 

house.     A  rapid  walk  of  a  few  minutes  Bought  him  to 

the  store  of  Willits,  into  which  he  strode  with  a  heavy, 

|    resolute  tread. 

"  What  do  you  mean,"  was  his  angry  interrogation, 
<  "  by  sending  such  messages  to  my  wife  ?"  And,  as  he 
s  spoke,  he  confronted  the  storekeeper  with  a  threatening 
!;  ecowl. 

\         The  latter  was  startled,  as  well  he  might  be,  for  Hard- 
>     ing  was  in  a  fierce  mood  of  mind,  and  stood  before  him 
with  his  hand  clenched,  and  meditated  violence  in  hi» 
look  and  manner. 

"  Say  !     What  do  you  mean  ?"  repeated  Harding. 
"  I  sent  no  insulting  message  to  your  v  «fe,"  said  the 
storekeeper 


74        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"  It's  false  !     You  did  I"  exclaimed  Harding. 

"  And  I  say  that  I  did  not,"  retorted  Willits,  whose  !; 
reddening  face  showed  his  rising  anger. 

"  Why  didn't  you  send  her  the  sugar  and  rice  this  jj 
morning  ?"  said  Harding. 

"  I  did  send  it,"  replied  the  storekeeper. 

"  Not  until  she  furnished  the  money." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  neighbour  Harding.  Andrew  !> 
came  for  two  pounds  of  sugar  and  two  pounds  of  rice,  ;,' 
which  I  have  charged  in  your  account."  ^ 

"  Didn't  you  refuse  to  let  him  have  them  without  the  I; 
money  ?" 

"No,  sir,  I  did  not.  Haven't  you  a  balance  on  my  | 
books  in  your  favour  ?  Here  are  the  articles  charged."  > 

And  Willits  opened  his  day-book  and  pointed  to  the  j 
recent  entry. 

"I  don't  understand  this,"  said  Harding,  locking  j 
bewildered. 

"There's  some  mistake.  Who  told  you  that,  iiefused  ; 
to  send  these  articles  without  the  money  / ' 

"  I  must  see  further  into  this.     Can't  cwnpiekend  it.'* 

And   as   the   carpenter   said   this,   Lc    turned    away 
abruptly,  and  went  back  home. 

"  Mary,"  said  he,  "  didn't  you  tell  AC  that  Willits    j 
refused  to  let  you  have  the  rice  and  &ug&i  co-day  without 
the  money  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  did ;  and  I  had  to  send  tL*  money  before  1 
could  get  them." 

"He  denies  it,  and  has  tht>  fw^ar  and  rice  both  v 
charged  to  me." 

"  What 1" 

"He  says  that  he  didn't  rtfhw  to  let  you  have  th*  \ 
articles  without  the  money." 

"  Andrew !" 

Mrs.  Harding  called  to  her  oldest  boy,  in  a  quick, 


! 

o-./---. 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


peremptory  voice,  turning  around  as  she  spoke;  bui 
tuere  was  no  answer. 

"  Andrew  I"  she  called  again. 

"  He's  gone  to  school,  mother,"  said  Lucy. 

'•  It  isn't  school-time  yet." 

"  But  he's  gone.  I  saw  him  put  on  his  hat,  and  go 
out  through  the  back  gate  a  little  while  after  father  went 
away." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding  looked  at  each  other  for  a  few 
moments  in  a  kind  of  blank  amazement.  To  both  came 
a  dim  foreshadowing  of  the  truth. 

"  Did  Andrew  bring  you  that  message  ?"  said  Hard- 
ing, in  a  stern  voice. 

"  He  did ;  and  then  I  gave  him  the  money  to  get  the 
things  I  wanted." 

"  And  he  went  back  with  it  to  the  store  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That  will  do." 

How  the  heavy  brow  of  the  carpenter  contracted' 
There  was  something  savage  in  his  face. 

"  He'll  remember  this  while  he  has  breath  in  his 
body,"  he  said  fiercely,  as  he  left  the  house. 

On  his  way  to  his  shop,  he  called  in  again  at  the  store 
of  Willits,  and,  by  a  few  questions,  satisfied  all  lingering 
doubts  as  to  the  guilt  of  Andrew. 

As  soon  as  two  o'clock  came,  he  went  to  the  school- 
house  and  asked  for  his  son. 

"  He  hasn't  been  here  to-day,"  was  the  teacher's  reply 
to  his  question. 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that,  Mr.  Long  ?" 

Harding  was  not  prepared  for  this. 

"  Altogether  certain,"  answered  the  schoolmaster. 
"  Was  Andrew  here  this  morning  ?"  He  now  addressed 
the  scholars. 

"No,  sir" — " no,  sir"- — "no,  sir" — ran  all  around  the 
room. 


li   76        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

"  Have  any  of  the  boys  seen  him  ?"   inquired   Mr. 
\     Long. 

"I  saw  him,"  spoke  up  one  of  the ' scholars,  "as  I 
came  to  school  just  now." 
«Where?" 

"  Sitting  on  the  fence  over  by  Miller's  woods." 
"  Did  you  speak  to  him  ?"  inquired  the  schoolmaster. 
"  Yes,  sir.     I  asked  him  what  he  was  doing ;  and  ho 
^     said,  '  Nothing.'     Then  I  asked  him  if  he  wasn't  going 
\<     to  school ;  and  he  said,  '  Maybe  so — after  a  while.'     As 
\     I  walked   along,  I  saw  him  going  over  into  Miller's 
\     woods." 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  schoolmaster.     And  then  he 
directed  two  of  the  older  boys  to  go  over  to  Miller's 
\     woods,  and  if  they  saw  Andrew,  to  bring  him  to  school. 

Harding  went  back  to  his  shop  in  a  state  of  profound 
agitation.     A  new  cause  of  anger  against  the  boy  was 
added — namely,  the  disgrace  to  himself  of  standing  be- 
ll    fore  the  assembled  village  children  as  the  father  of  a  boy 
!;     who  had  meanly  played  the  truant. 

During  the  afternoon,  every  thing  seemed  to  go  wrong 
with  the  carpenter.  A  man  for  whom  he  had  done  some 
work  disappointed  him  in  regard  to  the  payment;  while 
another,  for  whom  work  had  been  promised  at  a  certain 
time,  rated  him  soundly  for  not  being  up  to  the  letter  of 
his  contract.  Moreover,  Stark  the  tavern-keeper  called 
m  and  abused  him  for  having  said,  as  reported  to  him, 
fiat  he  was  doing  more  harm  to  the  neighbourhood  than 
a  gang  of  thieves.  Maddened  by  this  assault,  coming, 
is  it  did,  upon  his  unbalanced  state  of  mind,  Harding 
threw  a  mallet  at  his  head,  which,  happily,  glancing  by, 
went  smashing  through  a  window.  The  frightened 
tavern-keeper  beat  a  hasty  retreat. 

Toward  evening,  the  teacher  called  in  to  say,  that  the 
boys  sent  for  Andrew  had  found  him,  and  that  he  re- 
fused to  return  with  them  to  school.  This  was  the  last 


THE   ANQEL   Oi'   THE    HOUSEHOLD.  77 


jrushing  pound  laid  on  the  carpenter's  pantiag  self- 
control.  The  savage  imprecation  that  fell  from  his  lips, 
startled  the  teacher,  who  turned  off  from  him  instantly. 
and  went  on  his  way,  oppressed  by  a  feeling  of  troubled 
concern. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


WHEN  Jacob  Harding  came  home  from  his  shop  a 
little  after  sundown,  he  was  blind  with  passion.  The 
more  he  had  thought  of  Andrew's  conduct,  the  stronger 
had  grown  his  indignation  against  him;  and  he  was  now 
prepared  to  mete  out  to  him  a  degree  of  punishment 
cruel  in  the  extreme.  Grief  for  the  evil  he  had  done 
was  not  so  prominent  a  feeling  with  Harding,  as  anger  af 
the  boy  for  having  dared  to  venture  upon  the  commission 
of  such  flagrant  outrages.  "  Liar !  thief !  truant !"  Such 
were  the  bitter  words  that  came,  every  few  moments 
through  the  excited  father's  shut  teeth,  as  he  strode 
homeward.  "  That  a  boy  of  mine  should  be  guilty  of 
such  things  !"  he  repeated  over  and  over  again.  "A  bty 
of  mine  to  disgrace  me  in  this  way !" 

And  he  would  stretch  forth  his  arms,  with  his  large 
hands  gripped  so  tightly,   that  the  nails  almost  pene- 
trated the  callous  skin,   clutching,  in  imagination,  the 
ft.     guilty  child. 

"Where's  Andrew?"  he  asked,  almost  fiercely,  as  he 
i  entered  the  house. 

Mrs.  Harding  lifted  to  his  her  troubled  face,  and 
\  answered,  in  a  sad  voice — there  was  no  trace  of  anger 
1  about  her — 

7» 


78  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD 


"  I  haven't  seen  him  since  dinner-time." 

"  Not  home  yet  ?" 

"No." 

Harding  passed  through  the  house  into  the  yaid, 
where  he  cut  from  a  tree  a  stout,  tough  rod — far  too 
stout  and  strong  for  his  vigorous  arm  to  wield  in  the 
chastisement  of  a  tender  child — and  returning  with  it, 
laid  it  in  full  sight  of  the  younger  children,  on  a  table. 

"  A  liar,  a  thief,  and  a  truant !"  he  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  of  angry  excitement.  "  It  will  be  the  sorriest  day 
of  his  life  !  I  just  want  to  get  my  hands  on  him  I" 

Mrs.  Harding  answered  nothing.     She  too   had   felt    t 
strong  anger  toward  the  boy;  but  as  the  day  wore  on,    ', 
and   imagination   pictured   him   writhing   in   the   cruel    j 
hands  of  his  passionate  father,  anger  changed  to  yearning    ! 
pity.     Not  that  she  felt  like  excusing  him,  or  even  pal- 
liating his  crime  and  disobedience ;    but  in  her  heart 
revived  the  mother's  tenderness,  and  this  made  her  per- 
ceive,  clearly,  that  in  a  blind  indignation  against  the    ' 
boy,   his   father   would  destroy  the   salutary  effects  of 
punishment,  through  an  excessive  administration. 

Slowly  crept  on  the  dusky  twilight,  and  thicker  and  \ 
thicker  fell  the  evening  shadows,  closing  in  nearer  and  / 
nearer  to  the  carpenter's  dwelling,  so  that  the  disturbed  ^ 
inmates,  constantly  on  the  watch  for  Andrew,  found  !; 
their  circle  of  vision  growing  momently  narrower. 

And  now,  sharp  flashes  of  lightning  began  to  stream  !> 
forth  from  a  heavy  bank  of  cloud  that  lay  piled  up  in  the  ^ 
west,  and  the  freshening  winds  rustled  the  leaves  in  the  ; 
old  elms  that  stood  around  the  humble  cottage. 

"There's  a  gust  rising!"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  in  a  J 
troubled  voice,  going  to  the  door  and  gazing  anxiously  \ 
around.  "  Where  is  that  unhappy  boy  ?" 

"  Skulking  in  some  of  the  neighbours'  houses,"  gruffly    \ 
replied  the  husband.    "  But  he  might  as  well  come  home 
first  as  last      He  can't  escape  me." 


THE   ANGEL   OF  TiIE   HOUSEHOLD.  79 


1 


Mrs.  Harding  sighed,  and  was  about  retiring  from  the 
door,  when  a  heavy  peal  of  distant  thunder  jarred  on 
the  air. 

"  Oh !  I  wish  he  was  home  I"  she  said ;  "  we're  going 
to  have  a  terrible  storm." 

The  thick  bank  of  clouds  had  now  covered  so  large  a 
space  in  the  west,  that  all  the  sun's  retiring  beams  were 
hidden,  and  darkness  was  closing  around  her  heavy 
curtains. 

"  The  storm  will  bring  him  home,"  was  all  the  reply 
made  by  the  father. 

"  I  wish,  Jacob,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  after  waiting  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  longer,  during  which  time  the  heavy 
concussive  thunder  sounded  nearer  and  nearer,  "that 
you  would  step  over  to  Mrs.  Aaron's,  and  see  if  Andrew 
is  not  there.  He  goes  with  John  Aaron  a  good  deal, 
and  it  may  he  that  he  is  loitering  with  him  now,  afraid 
to  come  home." 

Harding  made  no  answer,  but  took  up  his  hat  and 
went  out.  The  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Aaron  was  distant 
nearly  an  eighth  of  a  mile,  and  thither  the  carpenter 
directed  his  steps,  walking  rapidly.  It  had  become  very 
dark  before  he  reached  there — the  darkness  invaded, 
every  few  moments,  by  brilliant  streams  of  light  from 
the  cloudy  west. 

"  Have  you  seen  any  thing  of  my  Andrew  ?"  inquired 
Harding,  on  reaching  the  neighbour's  house. 

"  I  have  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Aaron,  as  she  stood  with 
the  door  held  partly  open. 

"  Is  your  John  at  home  ?"  was  next  asked. 

"My  John?  Oh  yes,  indeed!  He's  never  away 
after  dark.  ' 

John  cai.ie  to  the  side  of  his  mother. 

"  Ha~e  you  seen  my  Andrew  to-day  ?"  Harding 
ppoke  tc  the  boy. 


80        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

_ 


"  No,  sir  ;  I  have  not.     He  wasn't  at  school  either  in 


the  morning  or  afternoon." 

"  Are  you  certain  about  not  having  seen  him  to-day  ?" 

"  Oh   yes,   sir.     He    hasn't   been   anywhere    around 
I     here." 

"  Where  can  he  be  ?"  said  Mrs.  Aaron,  now  manifest- 
ing a  woman's  concern. 

"Dear  knows!"  answered  the  carpenter,  with  some 
impatience  of  manner.  "  I  only  wish  I  had  my  hands 
on  him." 

"  How  long  has  he  been  away  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Aaron. 

"  Ever  since  dinner-time,"  was  replied. 

"  Maybe  he  is  over  at  Mr.  Lawson's,"  spoke  up  John. 
"  Neither  Henry  nor  Peter  Lawson  were  at  school  this 
afternoon.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they'd  all  gone  a  fish- 
ing in  Baxter's  mill-dam." 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you  !"  was  almost  roughly  said  by 
Harding,  as  he  turned  off  abruptly,  and  strode  away  in    ! 
the  direction  of  Lawson's  farm-house,  which  was  at  least 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  his  own  dwelling. 

The  darkness  was  now  so  deep,  that  he  could  see  only 
a  few  steps  before  him,  save  when  the  broad-sheeted 
lightning  threw  its  mantle  of  flame  over  the  earth  for  an 
instant,  and  then  left  the  night  blacker  than  before. 
The  flushes  came  in  quick  succession,  and  by  their  aid 
he  walked  on  as  steadily  as  if  day  had  been  abroad.  At 
Lawson's  he  gained  some  intelligence  of  his  truant  boy. 
Andrew  had  been  with  Henry  and  Peter  fishing,  as  was 
suggested  by  young  Aaron,  and  had  stayed  there  to  sup- 
per. But  it  was  more  than  half  an  hour  since  he  started 
for  home. 

"  You'll  find  him  safe  and  sound  when  you  get 
back,"  said  Mr.  Lawson;  "so  you  needn't  give  yourself 
any  more  uneasiness  about  him.  I  didn't  notice  that  ho 
was  staying  so  late,  or  I  would  have  sent  him  away 
earlier.  I  told  the  boys  to  go  with  him  a  part  of  the 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD        81 


way,  but  he  said  he  wasn't  at  all  afraid,  and  went  off  by 
himself." 

It  did  not  take  Harding  long  to  retrace  his  steps 
homeward.  Not  in  the  least  was  his  anger  against  the 
child  abated,  nor  had  he  changed,  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree, his  cruel  purposes  regarding  him.  He  had  often 
punished  him  severely;  but  the  severity  now  meditated 
was  something  far  beyond  any  prior  infliction. 

He  was  only  a  short  distance  from  his  dwelling,  when 
a  lightning  gleam,  that  made  the  air  light  as  noonday, 
/  showed  him  the  form  of  Andrew  crouching  down  against 
j  a  large  tree  that  stood  a  little  off  from  the  road.  He 
I  saw  it  but  for  an  instant :  for,  in  the  next  moment,  the 
/  blackness  of  darkness  was  around  him. 
"  Andrew  I"  he  called,  sternly. 

Ere  his  voice  died  on  the  air,  another  flash  quivered 

along  the  ground;    but  when  the  lad's  form  had  just 

been  seen,  no  object   was  visible.     Mr.  Harding  stood 

\    still,  and  awaited,  in  silence,  the  next  recurring  flash 

J    It  came,  but  Andrew  was  not  in  view. 

"  Andrew  I"  he  cried  again.     "  Andrew  !   why  don't 
s    you  answer  me  ?" 

The  echo  of  his  own  voice  was  all  the  reply  that  came     / 
!    He  now  advanced  to  the  tree,  felt  about  it  in  the  dark- 
!    ness,  and   searched  all  around   with   his  eyes,   as  flash 
i    after  flash  lit  up  the  scene.     But  the  form  of  Andrew     J! 
was   not   again    descried.      He   called,    threatened,   and 
called,  again  and  again.     He  searched  around  for  a  con-     !• 
sideruble  distance,  but  to  no  purpose.     Concluding  that     \ 
the  boy  had  gone  home,  he  kept  on  his  way,  and  soon 
arrived  at  his  dwelling. 

"  Is  he  here  yet  ?"  was  his  sharp  interrogation,  as  he     j; 
stepped  over  the  threshold. 

"Haven't  you   found   him?"    asked   Mrs.  Harding,     \ 
wi*h  a  blanching  face. 

:  He   was   over  at   Lawson's   until   dark,   and    then 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


started  for  home.     I'm  very  sure  I  saw  him  up  at  the 
turn  in  the  road,  sitting  by  the  foot  of  an  old  beech-tree,     ;> 
A  flash  of  lightning  made  it  as  clear  as  day;  but,  when     '; 
the  next  flash   came,  he  was   not  there.     I  called,  and 
called,  but  he  wouldn't  answer  me.    He'll  come  creeping 
m  here  before  long.     The  rain  will  soon  be  pouring  in 

!'     torrents,  and  he'll  never  stand  that." 
"  0  Jacob !"  said  the  mother,  in  a  tone  of  distress, 
s     "I'm  afraid  something  has  happened  to  him." 

"Never  fear.     He's  too  bad  for  any  thing  to  happen 
\     to  him,"  was  the  harsh  response. 

"  Don't  talk  so,  Jacob.     It's  a  fearful  night.     There  ! 

'{     Oh,   what   a   sharp   flash !     GrO   out   and   call  to   him. 

Maybe  he  is  close  by,  and  afraid  to  come  in.     Tell  him 

not   to   be   afraid — that  you   won't   punish   him.     Do, 

Jacob  I" 

"  I  will  punish  him,  though !   and  I'll  not  lie  about 

it,"  firmly  answered  Harding.     "  The  moment  I  get  my 

hands  on  him,  I'll  flog  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life, 

j     the  desperate  little  vagabond !     A  pretty  race  he  has  run 

'/     me,  after  all  his  ill-doing — as  if  that  wasn't  enough." 

"  What  a  crash  !"  exclaimed  poor  Mrs.  Harding,  her 
<!     face  blanching  still  whiter.     "  Hark !   is  that  wind  or    ] 
rain  ?" 

"  Both,"  replied  her  husband,  coolly.     "  He'll  not  be 
'S,     away  long  now." 

But   the    unyielding   father  erred   in  his  prediction,     > 

\     The  storm   came  down  with   fearful  violence,   howling     • 

•!     among  the  tall  elms,  crashing  its  thunder  through  tho     < 

s     air,  and  pouring  out  a  deluge  of  rain ;   yet  the  boy  ven-    5 

tured  not  to  the  door  of  his  father's  house,  where  a  more     < 

\     dreaded  evil  awaited  him.     He  could  bear  the  elemental    ;j 

\     wratb,  wild  and  fierce  though  it  was,  as  something  less    \ 

to  be  feared  than  the  cruel  anger  of  his  justly  incensed    <; 

(     father.  ;> 

Nine,  ten,  eleven  o'clock  came;   still  the  fearful  tem- 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


pest  roared  without — still  the  harsh  thunder  boomed 
along  the  sky,  or  came  sharply  rattling  down,  and  still 
nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of  Andrew.  Almost  sick 
with  anxiety  and  alarm,  Mrs.  Harding,  who  had  moved 
about  the  rooms  incessantly — now  listening  at  the  door 
or  window,  now  gazing  into  the  darkness,  and  now  call- 
ing the  name  of  the  boy — at  length  sunk  down  into  a 
kind  of  hopeless  state.  That  something  terrible  had 
happened  to  Andrew,  she  felt  certain ;  for  she  was  sure 
he  would  not  remain  out  in  storm  and  darkness,  if  he 
could  make  his  way  home.  If  softened  at  all  toward 
his  erring  son,  Harding  did  not  manifest  the  change. 
?  He  had  walked  the  floor  restlessly  for  a  greater  part 
;  of  the  evening,  every  now  and  then  opening  the  door  to 
;  look  out,  and  calling  sternly  tlte  name  of  Andrew,  who 
,«  was,  he  persisted  in  affirming,  skulking  somewhere  near 
at  hand.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  the  lad's  mother  strove 
<  to  turn  aside  the  harsh  anger  of  his  father. 

"Ill  not  let  him  go  to  swift  destruction,  Mary,"  he 
'<•  would  answer,  with  knitted  brows.  "I'll  not  be  a 
J  foolish  father,  and  spare  the  rod.  Come  when  he  will, 
i>  he  has  got  to  feel  the  weight  of  this  arm.  It  is  all  well 
!;  enough  for  you  to  pity  him ;  but  I  have  a  stern  duty  to  i 
\,  perform,  and  mean  to  execute  it  fully." 

"Try   and   not  feel  so  angry  against  him,  Jacob,"     I 

pleaded  the  mother,  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm.     "  We     / 

s    know  not  where  he  is,  nor  how  dreadfully  he  may  be     '. 

}     suffering.     What  if  he  should  be  dead  !     The  lightning     i 

has  struck  very  near,  several  times." 

"  I  would  rather  see  him  dead  now,  than  swinging  on  •' 
the  gallows  twenty  years  hence,"  said  Harding,  as  he  \ 
drew  himself  away  from  his  tearful  wife.  "  If  he  is  !•• 
dead,  he  will  be  safe  from  the  evil  to  come ;  but  if  alive, 
it  shall  be  my  business  to  check  the  course  of  evil." 

It  was  between  eleven  and  twelve  o'clock,  when  Mrs. 
Harding  went   from   the   family  sitting-room   into   the 


84        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


adjoining  chamber,  leaving  her  husband  pacing  the  floor, 
and  nursing  his  anger  against  the  absent  boy.  The 
height  of  the  storm  had  passed.  At  more  distant  inter- 
vals, the  feebler  flashes  came,  and  the  far-off  thunder 
had  a  muffled  roll.  The  winds  were  fast  dying  away, 
and  no  longer  swept  through  the  air,  in  howling  gust,  or 
bore  the  fast  descending  rain  in  fitful  torrents  against 
the  windows.  Every  moment  the  rushing  sound  without 
grew  less ;  and  by  the  time  Mrs.  Harding  returned  from 
the  chamber — scarce  three  minutes  had  elapsed  since  she 
left  her  husband — a  deep  stillness  had  succeeded  the 
tempest's  wail.  She  came  in  with  so  changed  a  counte- 
nance, that  her  husband  could  not  help  exclaiming — 
"  Why,  Mary  !  what  is  it  ?" 
"  Jacob  I"  There  was  a  depth  of  emotion  in  the 
voice  of  Mrs.  Harding,  as  she  grasped  with  both  hands 
her  husband's  arm,  and  lifted  to  his  face  her  moistened 
eyes,  that  surprised  and  subdued  him.  "Jacob,"  she  * 
repeated,  gently  drawing  him  toward  the  chamber-door, 
"  I  want  to  show  you  something." 
Harding  followed,  passively. 

"  Look  there,  Jacob !"     And  she  pointed  to  the  low 
bed  on  which  Grace  was  laid  every  night  beside  Lotty, 
and  where  she  usually  slept  soundly  until  Mrs.  Harding     ? 
retired. 

Harding  started  at  what  he  saw,  with  a  quick  ejacula- 
tion; but  his  wife  clung  to  his  arm,  saying,  in  a  half 
whisper — 

"  Hush,  Jacob  ! — don't  wake  them  now — don't  I" 
The  pause  was  fatal  to  his  stern  purpose.     The  face     ? 
of  Andrew  was   before  him,   pale  and   shrunken  with     ' 
suffering;  and  olose  beside,  almost  touching  it,  on  the 
'    same  pillow,  was  the  calm,  sweet,  heavenly  face  of  tho     ,< 

(babe.     The  boy  had  crept  in  through  the  window,  in 
the  height  of  the  storm,  and,  after  putting  off  his  wet 
.     clothes,  laid  himself  down  beside  little  Grace,  evidently 


_J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        85 


with  the  hope  that  her  dove-like  innocence  would  soften 
the  fierce  indignation  of  his  father  against  him,  and 
there  had  fallen  asleep.  His  hair  was  wet,  and  tear 
stajns  marked  his  cheeks. 

•'  Poor  boy  !"  almost  sobbed  Mrs.  Harding.  She  wa£ 
overcome  with  tenderness.  As  she  breathed  the  words, 
a  deep  sigh  parted  the  lips  of  the  sleeping  child,  and,  at 
the  same  moment,  Grace,  moving  in  her  sleep,  drew  her 
little  arm  across  his  neck,  and  laid  her  warm,  bright 
cheek  to  his. 

It  would  have  required  a  harder,  sterner  heart  than 
Jacob  Harding' s — hard  and  stern  as  that  was — to  with- 
stand the  softening  influence  of  a  scene  like  this,  coming 
as  it  did  after  long  hours  of  intense  excitement,  and  in 
the  solemn  hush  succeeding  a  fearful  tempest.  A  little 
while  he  stood  as  if  spell-bound,  and  then  turning  sud- 
denly away,  left  the  chamber.  When  his  wife  followed 
him  into  the  next  room,  she  found  him  sitting  in  a 
chair,  with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  bosom.  She  came 
up  to  where  he  sat,  and  leaning  against  him,  laid  her  > 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  Jacob,"  she  said,  softly.  It  was  the  old,  old  voice  <! 
that  now  entered  his  ears — the  voice  that  had  sounded  $ 
sweetest  of  all  in  the  days  when  young  love  filled  his  $ 
mind  with  dreams  of  an  Elysian  future.  He  neither  < 
moved  nor  spoke ;  but  his  heart  was  melting. 

"Jacob — husband — dear    husband!"      How    many 
years  had  passed — desolate,  dreary  years  to  both  their     s 
suffering  spirits — since  Mrs.  Harding  had  spoken  to  her     ;> 
husband  so  tenderly,  and  in  words  like  these  ! 

"  Say  on,  Mary  !"     And  as  the  words  passed  his  lips, 
he  leaned  toward  her.     How  naturally  glided  her  arm     > 
from  his  shoulder  to  his  neck,  as  her  heart  leaped  with  a 
delicious  impulse !     The  old,  old  voice,  once  so  full  of     \ 
music,  vtse  ringing  n  her  ears  again      It  was  the  voice 
8 


86        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


of  her  yotrng  lover — that  in  which  he  had  wooed  and    J! 
won  her  in  the  days  of  innocent,  confiding  girlhood. 

"  Say  on,  Mary,"  he  repeated.  How  gently,  almost  < 
humbly,  he  spo&e  I  There  was  not  a  trace  of  bitterness  •! 
or  passion  in  his  tones. 

"Think  of  what  the  poor  boy  has  suffered  to-night,     j; 
Jacob.     A  tender  child,  only  eight  years  old,  exposed  to     ( 
such '  a  fearful  storm  !     Think  of  him  as  suffering  and 
repentant,  Jacob — not  as  stubbornly  bent  on  continuing    / 
in  wrong.     He  looks  so  pale  and  frightened,  even  in  his 
sleep,  that  the  sight  of  him  makes  my  heart  ache."  { 

"  And  think,  too,  Mary,"  answered  Harding,  "  of  his  j 
great  offence.  Will  it  be  right  to  let  him  go  un-  ; 
punished  ?" 

"  Why  should  he  be  punished  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  For  his  own  good.  He  must  be  taught  that  evil  f, 
deeds  bring  inevitable  pain."  > 

"  And  have  they  not  brought  pain  to-night  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Harding.  "  Think,  Jacob,  whether,  for  any  wrong, 
you  would  have  doomed  him  to  the  anguish  and  fear  he 
must  have  suffered  to-night?  I  am  sure  you  would 
not." 

"  0  Mary !  I  dare  not  let  him  escape  my  severe  dis- 
pleasure," replied  Harding,  his  voice  taking  a  troubled 
tone.  "  For  him  to  go  on  in  this  way,  is  certain  ruin." 

"  It  is  for  us  to  save  him  from  evil,  if  in  our  power, 
Jacob.  But  how  shall  we  save  him.  Severity,  I  fear, 
will  not  do  it.  He  has  been  scolded,  and  driven,  and 
whipped,  until  I  sometimes  think  he  is  hardened.  A 
number  of  tinies  I  have  noticed  of  late,  that  when  1 
speak  mildly  to  him,  he  obeys  more  readily  than  when  I 
am  out  of  patience.  If  I  order  him  to  do  any  thing  in 
an  angry  or  imperative  voice,  he  moves  off  sulkily,  and, 
unless  I  follow  him  up,  is  certain  to  disobey  me.  But 
if  I  say,  '  Andrew,  go  and  do  so  and  so,  that's  a  good 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        87 


boy,'   he   springs   away   and   does   the   errand  in    the 
shortest  time,  and  with  evident  pleasure." 

"I  wish  to  do  right,  Mary,"   said  Harding,  in  an 
irresolute  voice. 

"No  one  knows  that  better  than  I  do,  Jacob," 
answered  Mrs.  Harding.  "  But  what  is  right  ?  Ah  ! 
that  is  the  question.  How  ignorant  and  erring  we  arc ! 
We  have  tried  hard  &nd  harsh  means  with  our  children  j 
from  the  beginning,  and  they  do  not  seem  to  grow  better. 
Let  us  try  some  gentler  methods." 

ft  But  what  are  we  to  do  with  Andrew  ?     Let  the  past 
go  unpunished  ?" 

"Unpunished,  at  least  by  the  rod,  Jacob.     He  ex-     > 
pects  that,  and  is,  in  some  degree,  prepared  for  it.     If 
we  deal  more  gently  by  him,  and  let  him  understand     ;> 
that  we  are  grieved  rather  than  angry  at  his  conduct — 
that  our  punishment,  whatever  it  may  be,  is  given  in 
love,  not  indignation — he  may  repent  far  more  deeply 
of  his  evil  deeds,   than   if  stubborn  anger  be  aroused 
through  painful  chastisement.     Hush  I" 

Mrs.  Harding  raised*  herself  up  and  listened,  as  a  > 
voice  came  from  the  room  they  had  left  a  little  while  be-  '/ 
fore.  It  was  Andrew's  voice.  "  0  father  !"  they  heard  $ 
him  say  distinctly,  and  in  a  tone  of  fear. 

Both  arose  quickly,  and  went  into  the  chamber  where 
he  was  lying. 

"Don't  cut  me  so  hard,  father ! — don't;  oh,  don't" 
His  tones  were  full  of  agony. 

"  I'm  so  wet  and  frightened  !"  he  murmured,  a  little 
while  afterward.     "  Won't  the  lightning  strike  me  ?     Oh 
dear  !  oh  dear  !     If  father  wouldn't  cut  me  so  hard  !" 
jj         The  heart-full  mother  could  not  keep  the  tears  from 
;>     raining  over  her  face;   and  even  Jacob  Harding  felt  a 
woman's  weakness  stealing  through  his  breast.     He  was 
\     about  moving  away  from  the  bed  where  his  children 


88        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


slept;  when  Andrew  started  up,  wide  awake  almost  a& 
soon  as  his  eyes  were  opened. 

"  0  father  I"  he  exclaimed,  the  moment  his  bewildered 
mind  was  able  to  comprehend  his  *rue  position — "  don't 
whip  me — please  don't!  I've  been  very  bad;  but  if 
you  don't  whip  me,  I'll  try  and  not  be  bad  any  more." 

And  he  stretched  forth  his  hands  imploringly,  while 
his  colourless  face  had  such  a  look  of  fear  and  sorrow, 
that  the  heart  untouched  by  its  expression  must  have 
been  of  adamant. 

"  You  have  been  very  wicked,  Andrew,"  said  his 
mother,  in  a  low,  serious,  grieving  voice ;  "  and  I  do  not 
see  how  your  father  can  help  punishing  you." 

"  0  mother !  mother !"  cried  the  child,  bursting  into 
tears,  and  bending  over  toward  her — she  had  stooped 
down  by  the  bedside — "  I  know  I  have  been  wicked,  and 
I'm  so  sorry.  I  don't  know  why  I  did  it.  It  seemed  as 
if  I  couldn't  help  it.  0  mother !  how  dreadful  it  was 
out  in  the  woods,  with  the  thunder  and  lightning  all 
around  me  !  I  was  so  frightened  !  But  I  was  afraid  to 
come  in.  I  saw  the  candle  in  the  window,  and  heard 
you  and  father  call  me ;  but  I  didn't  dare  to  answer. 
Once,  when  the  lightning  made  all  as  bright  as  day,  I 
thought  I  saw  Grace  just  a  little  way  before  me  on  the 
ground.  I  ran  right  up  to  the  spot,  but  she  wasn't 
there  !  Then  I  thought  I'd  get  into  the  window,  and  lie 
down  on  the  bed,  just  here,  alongside  of  her.  Maybe, 
I  said  to  myself,  father,  who  loves  little  Grace  so  much, 
won't  whip  me  for  her  sake,  if  I  promise  not  to  be  bad 
any  more." 

"And  do  you  promise,  Andrew?"  Mrs.  Harding 
spoke  very  seriously. 

"  I'd  promise,  if  I  thought  father  would  believe  me," 
sobbed  the  poor  child. 

"  Promise  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  mother !" 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Then  ask  him  to  forgive  you,  my  son  !" 

There  was  a  deep  silence  for  some  moments. 

"  Father  I"  Timid,  hesitating,  almost  fearful  was  the 
voice  that  broke  on  the  hushed  air  of  the  chamber. 

Harding  neither  moved  from  the  spot  where  he  stood, 
with  averted  face,  nor  answered. 

"  Father !     0  father !" 

The  stern  man  was  too  much  softened  to  resist  the 
pleading  anguish  of  that  broken  voice. 

"Well,  my  son?"  He  did  not  mean  to  speak  so 
gently ;  but  his  heart  flowed  into  his  tones. 

"  I've  been  very  wicked,  father."  His  utterance  was 
choked,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 

"  Speak  to  him,  Jacob,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  bending 
toward  her  husband. 

"  Lie  down,  my  son,  and  go  to  sleep.  You  have  been 
very  wicked,  and  I  intended  to  punish  you  severely ;  but 
if  you  will  be  a  good  boy,  as  you  promise,  I  may  forgivo 
you." 

Harding  tried  to  speak  calmly,  and  even  a  little 
sternly ;  but  his  voice  was  scarcely  steady,  and  betrayed 
the  powerful  struggle  that  was  going  on  within.  As 
Andrew  fell  back,  sobbing,  on  the  pillow,  from  which,  a 
little  while  before,  he  had  started  up  in  fear,  his  father 
left  the  chamber,  deeply  agitated.  He  wished  to  be 
alone,  in  order  to  recover  his  manly  self-possession.  His 
face  was  calm  and  elevated  when  he  rejoined  his  wife. 
In  both  their  hearts,  what  a  wild  tempest  had  raged, 
eymboling  the  fierce  storm  that  darkened  tke  face  of 
nature  !  But  the  azure  depths  of  their  spirits  were  clear 
again — clear  as  the  starry  heavens  that  arched  above 
their  lowly  dwelling 

8* 


90  THJB   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  Vin. 

MR.  LONG,  the  village  schoolmaster,  after  leaving  the  1 

carpenter,   took    his   way    homeward,   oppressed   by   a  < 

troubled  feeling.     He  was  a  man  of  humane  impulses,  > 

and  these  were  excited  by  the  cruel  threats  and  savage  ! 

looks  of  Harding.     Andrew's  offence  was  heinous,  de-  j 

serving  more  than  ordinary  marks  of  displeasure;  and  > 
he  had,  himself,  been  thinking  over  various  modes  of 

punishment,   in  order,  if  possible,  to  select  that  which  ; 

would  be  most  efficacious,  when  the  young  truant  pre-  ^ 

sented  himself  in  the  morning.     Miss  Gimp,  the  dress-  < 

maker,  was  at  his  house  when  he  returned  home.     She  < 

was  doing  somte  work  for  Mrs.  Long,  and  dropped  in  ; 

with  it  a  little  before  supper-time.     Very  naturally,  she  <; 
was   invited  to  remain  until  after   tea.     Indeed,  Miss 
Gimp  was  generally  a  welcome  guest,  for  she  was  chatty, 
and  knew  the  weak  side  of  every  woman  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood    She  was,  moreover,  in  possession  of  all  the 

current   gossip — good-natured   and    ill-natured — floating  < 
about,  far  and  near,  and  had  a  way  peculiar  to  herself, 

and  racy  withal,  of  telling  every  thing  she  knew,  and  a  \ 
little  more  sometimes. 

"  You  look  sober,  Edward,"  said  the  schoolmaster's  i 

wife,  as  her  eyes  rested  on  her  husband's  face,  soon  after  ; 
he  came  in.     "  Don't  you  feel  well  ?" 

"  Something  has  happened  that  troubles  me,"  replied  j 
Mr.  Long.     And  then  he  looked  more  serious. 

How  quickly  was  the  head  of  Miss  Gimp  elevated  I  £ 

"What    a    sparkling    interest  was    in   her    two    bright  ^ 
eyes ! 

"  Trouble  you,  Edward  ?     What  is  it  ?"  j> 

J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        91 


A  shade  of  anxiety  flitted  across  the  pleasai  t  face  of 
Mrs.  Long. 

"  Nothing  that  particularly  concerns 'myself/'  replied 
i  the  schoolmaster. 

"  Any  thing  wrong  in  the  school  ?" 
"  Tnere's  something  wrong  about  one  of  the  scholars. 
j;    Andrew  Harding  has  been  playing  truant." 

"The  ne'er  do  well!"  exclaimed  Miss  Gimp;  not  so 
!>  much  in  sorrow  or  anger,  as  from  a  species  of  uncon- 
j  scious  satisfaction  at  hearing  a  piece  of  bad  news. 

"  Fit;  afraid  that  boy  will  come  to  an  evil  end,"  re- 
;  marked  Mrs.  Long. 

j;        "  He  11  come   to   the  gallows,  without  doubt,"   said 
jj    Miss  Giaip.     "  I  never  saw  his  match.    Not  for  a  moun-     ;, 
!>    tain  of  jrold  would  I  live  in  the  house  with  him.     I  pity 
'?.    his  pool  mother;  but,  then,   she  has  herself  to  blame. 
I  never  saw  a  woman  have  so  little  management  with 
j    children.     She  lets  them  do  as  they  please,  and  make  as 
\    much  noise  and  disorder  as  they  like,  until  she  gets  so 
J    worried  she  can't  stand  it  any  longer;    and  then  she     < 
;    screams  at  them,  and  boxes  their  ears  right  and  left,  in  a     '/ 
(,    way  to  make  one's  blood  cold.     That's  no  way  to  bring 
up  children." 

"Indeed,  it  is  not,"  was  the  quiet  response  of  the     ;! 
schoolmaster's  wife. 

"  Why,  d'ye  know,"  ran  on  Miss  Gimp,  "that  on  one 
occasion  of  my  being  there  to  fit  a  dress  for  Mrs.  Hard-     ;j 
ing,  Andrew — a  little  imp  of  Satan  he  is — forgive  me  for     \ 
saying  so — Andrew  threw  a  large  case-knife  at  his  sistei 
Lucy.     It  came  as  nigh  cutting  her  ear  off  as  could  be — 
just  touching  it  with  the  edge  as  it  glanced  by.     If  you 
had  seen  the  passion   of   his  mother !     It  was   awful ! 
She  grew  almost  black  in  the  face ;  and  I  thought  she 
would  never   get  done  beating  the  boy.     It  made  me      / 
sick  at  heart.     Oh  !  she  is  a  woman  of  an  awful  temper ! 


!>2  THE  ANQEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


t  wouldn't  have  her  tongue  on  me  for  the  world.     And 
BO  Andrew  has  been  playing  the  truant,  ha !" 

How  the  voice  of  Miss  Gimp  changed,  as  she  recol- 
lected herself! 

"  I  am  grieved  to  say  that  he  has,"  answered  the    j 
schoolmaster,  gravely. 

"  Does  his  father  know  it  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Long 
"  Yes ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is  in  a  most  dreadful 
passion  about  it.     I  called  at  his  shop  as  I  came  home 
just  now,  and  the  way  he  looked  and  spoke  made  me 
really  shudder." 

"  He's  a  cruel-tempered  man,"  said  Miss  Gimp.     "  I 
know  all  about  him.     His  father  was  little  better  than  a     '. 
savage,  and  used  to  beat  his  children  about  as  if  they 
were  dogs." 

"I   pity  Andrew,  from  my  heart,"   said  Mr.  Long. 
"  He  has  acted  very  badly ;   but  he  is  only  a  tender    J! 
;    child,  needing  correction  for  his  fault,  but  not  able  to    | 
/     bear   the   cruelty   in   store   for   him.     I   feel   unhappy 
!     about  it." 

"  How  would  it  do,"  suggested  Mrs.  Long,  "  for  you 
to  go  over,  after  tea,  and  try  to  soothe  his  father,  and 
thus  break  the  heavy  weight  of  his  displeasure  ?" 
"  Just  what  I  was  thinking  about,"  said  Mr.  Long. 
"  I  wouldn't  do  any  such  thing,"  spoke  up  Miss  Gimp, 
quickly.     "  Take   my  advice,  and  don't  go  near  him. 
J>     He's  a  very  strange  man.      As  sure  as  you  do,  he'll 
j;     insult  you;  and,  what  is  worse,  beat  Andrew  twice  as 
f,     badly,  from  a  fresh  excitement  of  angry  feelings." 

"There   may   be   something  in   that,"  remarked   the 
J;     schoolmaster's  wife. 

"  There    is    something    in    it,"     said    Miss    Gimp. 

<  "People  like  them  can't  bear  interference  from  others; 
!;     and  always  repel  intrusion  by  broad  insult.     Let  them 

<  alone,  Mr.  Long,  to  do  with  their  own  as  they  please. 
\      More  harm  than  good  will  arise  from  any  attempt,  you 


m 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSJEHO.JD.  98 


may  make  to  screen  the  young  rebel.  It's  all  verj  j 
kind,  very  humane  in  you,  Mr.  Long,  and  does  great  \ 
credit  to  your  heart ;  but  you  can't  help  them  any." 

"  There  may  be  truth  in  your  suggestion,"  answered    $ 
the  schoolmaster,   in  some  doubt  and   irresolution — ho 
was  flattered,  in  spite  of  himself,  by  Miss  Gimp's  com- 
pliment— "  and  yet  it  does  not  seem  right  to  leave  a 
helpless  child  in  the  hands  of  a  man  insane  from  anger,     ^ 
and   not  make   an   effort   to   save  him  from  excessive    < 
cruelty." 

Tea  was  soon  after  on  the  table.  Mr.  Long,  still  un-  ^ 
decided  in  his  mind,  sat  thoughtful  and  nearly  silent  J 
during  the  meal,  while  Miss  Gimp  rattled  on,  much  to  J 
the  edification  of  Mrs.  Long,  who,  in  her  agreeable  tittle- 
tattle,  quite  forgot  poor  Andrew  Harding.  A  sudden  s 
roll  of  distant  thunder  interrupted  the  voluble  play  of  > 
the  gossip's  tongue. 

"  What's  that !"  she  exclaimed — "  not  a  gust  coming 
up  ?" 

Mr.  Long  went  to  the  door,  and  threw  a  glance  around 
the  horizon. 

"  There  are  some  heavy  clouds  in  the  west,"  said  he. 

"  And  it  threatens  rain,"  added  Miss  Gimp,  who  now 
stood  by  his  side.  "Get  me  my  bonnet,  if  you  please 
Mrs.  Long,"  said  she,  turning  to  the  schoolmaster's  wife. 
"  It's  growing  dark  fast,  and  I  must  run  home." 

"  Don't  be  in  a  hurry.  It  isn't  late.  I'm  sure  it 
won't  storm  to-night,"  said  Mrs.  Long,  affecting  a  great 
deal  of  reluctance  at  parting  with  Miss  Gimp,  who,  in 
her  turn,  had  just  enough  self-esteem  to  believe  that  the 
schoolmaster's  wife  felt  really  bad  about  her  "  going 
away  so  early." 

Often,  during  the  fearful  storm  that  wigcd  that  night, 
did  Mr.  Long  think  of  Andrew  Harding,  and  wonder 
how  it  was  with  him.  lie  could  not  forget  the  cruel 


r 

94        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


face  and  words  of  the  boy's  father:  they  haunted  his 
imagination  and  his  thoughts. 

On  the  next  morning,  he  went  early,  as  was  his  cua- 
torn,  to  the  school-house.  He  was  sitting  at  his  desk, 
engaged  in  study,  when  the  sound  of  footsteps  caused 
aim  to  look  up.  It  was  too  soon  to  expect  any  of  the 
scholars,  and  he  was,  therefore,  prepared  to  see  a 
stranger.  He  almost  started,  as  he  saw  the  carpenter 
leading  his  son,  and  within  a  few  steps  of  the  door. 

"  3Ir.  Long,  I  have  brought  Andrew  to  school  this 
morning." 

Harding  had  paused  with  one  foot  across  the  threshold. 
He  spoke  in  a  steady  voice,  rather  below  his  ordinary 
tone.     "  I   preferred    coming   early,    before    the    other 
scholars  arrived,  as  I  wished  to  say  a  word  about  the    • 
lad." 

"Won't  you  step  in?"  said  the  schoolmaster,  quite     i 
taken  by  surprise  at  the  manner  of  his  visitor,  in  which    s 
was  nothing  of  the  fierce  indignation  apparent  at  their 
.ast  interview. 

"  No,  I  thank  you.     You  can  go  in,  Andrew." 

The  boy  entered  quietly,  and  went  with  a  stealthy 
Btep  to  his  usual  seat. 

"  I  called  to  say,  Mr.  Long,"  resumed  the  carpenter, 
"  that  Andrew  promises,  if  you  will  forgive  him,  never 
again  to  be  guilty  of  such  bad  conduct.     I  think  hig     '.; 
punishment  has  already  been  severe  enough,  and  of  a     \ 
jharacter  not  likely  soon  to  be  forgotten.     He  has  been     ;j 
/ery  wicked,  but,  I  think,  repents  sincerely." 

"  I  am  not  angry  with  him,"  said  the  schoolmaster, 
"but  grieved  that  any  scholar  of  mine  should  commit 
that  most  disgraceful  of  all  offences — playing  the  truant. 
If  you  think  he  has  been  sufficiently  punished,  and  sin- 
cerely repents,  the  matter  can  rest  where  it  is;  but  I 
will  not  promise,  for  the  future,  should  he  offend  aga»u, 
The  example  would  be  too  pernicious." 


THE    ANGEL    OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


I 


"  I  think  you  can  trust  him,"  answered  the  carpenter, 
as  he  moved  back  a  few  steps  from  the  door.  "  Good 
morning,"  he  added,  after  standing  silent  for  a  moment 
or  two,  and  went  away. 

Mr.  Long  felt  rather  strangely  on  finding  himself 
alone  with  the  boy,  after  this  brief  interview  with  Hard- 
ing. In  both  the  father  and  son,  a  striking  change  was 
apparent.  As  to  the  basis  of  the  change,  he  was  alto- 
gether ignorant.  The  natural  conclusion  to  which  his 
mind  came,  almost  without  reflection,  was,  that  the  car- 
penter had  punished  his  child  with  a  measure  of  severity 
from  which  his  own  better  consciousness  now  revolted, 
and  that,  as  some  reparation  for  his  cruelty,  he  now 
sought  to  screen  him  from  further  consequences.  That 
both  were  greatly  subdued,  was  apparent  at  a  glance. 

"  Andrew,"  said  the  schoolmaster.  He  spoke  kindly 
but  seriously. 

The  child  looked  up  timidly. 

"  Come  here,  Andrew." 

The  boy  left  his  seat,  and  came  toward  the  school-     ;> 
master,  with  a  slow  movement,  his  eyes  fixed  earnestly 
and  inquiringly  upon  his  face. 

There  were  unmistakable  marks  of  suffering  and  fear 
in  that   young   countenance;    and,   as   Mr.  Long  noted 
them,  pity  for  the  lad  and  a  new  interest  in  regard  to     •! 
him  were  awakened  in  his  mind. 

"Poor  boy  1"     It  was  his  involuntary  mental  ejacula- 
tion.    Scarcely  thinking  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  took     <; 
Andrew,  by  the  hand,  and  said,  kindly — 

"  I  am  sorry  you  were  so  naughty  yesterday.     How     { 
came  you  to  do  so?" 

The  child's  lips  quivered  a  moment,  and  his  eyes  fell      S> 
to  the  ground.     A  little  while  he  stood  silent. 

"  How  came 'you  to  do  so,  Andrew  ?"     The  voice  that     s 
said  this  was  kind  and  encouraging. 

I  don't  know,  Mr.  Long,"  was  answered;  and  now 


J 


96        THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


the  boy's  clear  eyes — the  schoolmaster  was  struck  with 
the  softness  of  their  expression — were  raised  to  his. 
"It  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  didn't  think 
much,  at  first,  what  I  was  doing;  but  when  I  got  a 
going,  it  was  like  running  down  hill.  I  could  not  stop 
myself." 

"  You  are  sorry  about  it,  are  you  not,  Andrew  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  Mr.  Long.  I  can't  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am 
[  wish  I  hadn't  done  it." 

"  You  will  never  do  so  again  ?" 

"  Not  if  I  can  help  it,  Mr.  Long." 

"  You  can  help  it,  Andrew,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  in 
a  serious  voice.  "  Every  one  can  help  doing  wrong." 

"  I  don't  know."  The  child  spoke  half  to  himself, 
and  in  a  tone  so  sad,  that  the  schoolmaster  was  touched 
by  it.  "  It  seems  as  if  I  couldn't  help  it,  sometimes." 

"  Do  you  ever  say  your  prayers,  on  going  to  bed  at 
night  ?"  asked  the  schoolmaster,  after  a  few  moments  of 
thoughtful  silence. 

"  I  used  to  say  them  a  good  while  ago ;  but  I  never 
do  now,"  was  answered. 

"  You  must  begin  again,  Andrew,  if  you  desire  to  be 
i  a  good  boy.  Begin  this  very  night.  Do  not  get  into 
bed  until  you  have  knelt  down  and  said,  '  Our  Father 
who  art  in  heaven.'  Do  Lotty  and  Philip  say  their 
prayers  at  night  ?" 

"  No,  sir.  Mother  doesn't  teach  any  of  u?  to  say  OUT 
prayers." 

"  Do  you  ever  read  in  the  Bible  ?" 

"  Mother  won't  let  me  have  the  Bible." 

"Why  not?" 

"  She  says  I  dirty  the  leaves  and  pictures." 

"  Have  you  no  Testament  ?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  If  I  give  you  one,  will  you  read  in  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 


L 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Very  well,  Andrew,  I  will  bring  you  a  Testament 
}    this 'afternoon,  and  it  shall  be  yours  if  you  will  learn  a 
verse  in  it  every  day." 

The  lad's  face  brightened  with  real  pleasure. 
"Not  all  evil — no,  not  all  evil!"   were  the  school- 
Si    master's  earnestly,  inward  spoken  words.     "  The  inno- 
cence of  childhood  has  been  trampled  on  and  overlaid ; 
,•;     but  there  is  good  ground  still,  ready  for  the  hand  of 
j;    culture." 

"  Andrew,"  said  he,  after  a  slight  pause,  "  you  must 

i    be  on  your  guard  when  the  other  boys  come  to  school. 

It  is  known  that  you  have  played  truant,  and  some  of 

them  will  be  sure  to  say  unkind  things  to  you  about  it. 

>    Try  and  not  get  angry — try  hard,  and  I'm  sure  you  can 

«;    help  it.     Don't  seem  to  mind  what  they  say,  and  they'll 

f,    soon  let  you  alone." 

The  form  of  a  boy  darkened  the  door  at  this  moment, 
;  and  the  conference  of  Andrew  and  the  schoolmaster  was 
••  at  ait  end. 


98        THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD 


CHAPTER  IX. 

IT  was  evening.  Lotty  and  Grace  were  sleeping,  side 
by  side,  and  Philip,  a  restless,  rather  fretful  child  of  four 
years,  had  some  time  since  been  taken  off  to  bed.  Mrs. 
Harding,  having  cleared  away  the  supper  things,  now 
busily  plied  her  needle.  Her  husband  was  near  her,  by 
the  table,  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  and  his  mind 
busy  with  a  new  train  of  thoughts  that  occupied  it  almost 
per  force.  Side  by  side,  on  two  low  chairs,  sat  Andrew 
and  his  sister  Lucy,  younger  by  two  years.  Andrew 
held  open  in  his  hands  the  Testament  given  him,  ac- 
cording to  promise,  by  Mr.  Long,  and  he  was  reading 
from  it  in  a  low  voice,  while  Lucy  leaned  toward  him, 
listening  intently.  The  mother's  ears  were  open,  as  well 
aa  Lucy's,  and  took  in  every  word ;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  Harding  began  to  listen  also.  Andrew  was  read- 
ing of  the  birth  of  Christ  in  the  city  of  Bethlehem,  and 
of  the  wise  men  who  came  from  the  East,  guided  by  the 
star  that  heralded  his  wonderful  advent.  It  was  many, 
many  years  since  the  words  of  this  strange  history  had 
been  in  his  thoughts;  and  now  they  came  to  him  with  a 
newly  awakening  interest.  Andrew  read  on — of  the 
angel  who  appeared  to  Joseph  in  a  dream,  warning  hire 
of  the  evil  designs  of  Herod — of  the  cruel  slaughter  of 
the  Innocents — of  John  the  Baptist  preaching  repent- 
ance in  the  wilderness  of  Judea — and  of  the  baptism  of 
the  Saviour  in  Jordan. 

All  unconscious  that  his  father  and  mother  were  list- 
ening, the  boy  continued  to  read.  What  a  power  was 
in  the  divine  word,  coming  to  their  ears,  as  it  did,  borne 
on  the  voice  of  a  child  !  There  was  a  wonderful  fascination 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.        99 

about  every  fact  and  every  holy  sentiment.  They  saw, 
in  imagination,  Jesus  led  up,  of  the  Spirit,  into  the  wil- 
derness, to  he  tempted  of  the  devil ;  and  when  the  re- 
buked tempter  left  him,  they  felt  a  sense  of  pleasure  at 
the  triumph  of  good  over  evil,  that  passed  with  a  low 
thrill  to  the  profoundest  depths  of  their  bejng.  In  the 
call  of  Simon  and  Andrew,  and  James  and  John,  the 
sons  of  Zebedee,  they  almost  seemed  to  hear  the  Lord 
speaking  to  them,  and  calling  them  to  a  new  life.  They 
eaw  him  going  about  through  Galilee,  teaching  in  the 
synagogues,  and  preaching  the  gospel  of  the  kingdom, 
and  healing  all  manner  of  sickness  and  all  manner  of 
disease  among  the  people.  And  when  he  went  up  into 
a  mountain,  and  taught  from  thence  the  multitude,  tho 
divine  words  he  uttered  came  to  them  with  a  spirit  and 
power  that  lifted  their  souls  into  higher  regions,  and 
gave  them  perceptions  of  truths  such  as  had  never  come 
to  them  before. 

"  Blessed  are  the  merciful,  for  they  shall  obtain 
mercy.  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see 
God.  Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,  for  they  shall  be 
called  the  children  of  God." 

Many  times,  in  earlier  days — days  in  which  some  rosy 
gleams  from  the  morning  of  childhood  mingled  with  the 
colder  light  of  selfish  maturity — had  they  heard  these 
beautiful  sentences;  but  never  had  the  words  so  pene- 
trated their  souls;  never  had  they  felt  such  a  sad, 
almost  hopeless  yearning  to  rise  into  the  holy  states  of 
the  merciful,  the  pure  in  heart,  and  the  peacemaker. 

Still  Andrew  read  on,  unconscious  that  other  can 
than  Lucy's  were  hearkening  to  his  utterance  intently. 

"Let  your  light  so  shine  befote  men,  that  they  may 
see  your  good  works,  and  glorify  your  Father  which  is  in 
heaven." 

A  low  sigh  from  the  mother's  heart  trembled,  scarce 
audibly,  on  the  air. 


100  THE  ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOI-L 


(i  Again,  ye  have  heard  that  it  hath  been  said  by  them 
of  old  time,  Thou  shalt  not  forswear  thyself,  but  shalt 
perform  unto  the  Lord  thine  oaths.  But  I  say  unto  you, 
Swear  not  at  all :  neither  by  heaven,  for  it  is  God's 
throne;  nor  by  the  earth,  for  it  is  his  footstool;  neither 
by  Jerusalem,  for  it  is  the  city  of  the  great  king. 
Neither  shalt  thou  swear  by  thy  head,  because  thou 
canst  not  make  one  hair  white  or  black;  but  let  your 
communication  be  yea,  yea ;  nay,  nay :  for  whatsoever  <! 
;  is  more  than  these,  cometh  of  evil." 

"  Cometh  of  evil — cometh  of  evil."     How  the  words    !; 
sounded  in  the  ears  of  Jacob  Harding,  over  and  over    s 
£     again,  as  if  spoken  directly  to  him  ! 

"  But  I  say  unto  you,  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them    i 

them  that  curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and    \ 

pray  for  them  which  despitefully  use  you  and  persecute    ; 

you :  that  ye  may  be  the  children  of  your  Father  which    1 

)'     is  in  heaven;  for  he  niaketh  his  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil    '} 

and  on  the  good,  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just  and  on  the    ; 

s     unjust.     For  if  ye  love  them  which  love  you,  what  re-    '• 

ward  have  ye?  do  not  even  the  publicans  the  same? 
ji     And  if  ye  salute  your  brethren  only,  what  do  ye  more    ; 
•!     than  others  ?    do  not  even   the  publicans  so  ?     Be  ye    ! 
therefore    perfect,   even   as   your   Father   which    is   in    <! 
•;     heaven  is  perfect." 

Tired  with  reading  aloud,  Andrew  now   closed   his    : 
/     Testament,  and  said,  in  a  kind  way,  to  his  sister — 
"  Come,  Lucy — let's  go  to  bed." 
Lucy  made  no  objection,  and  the  two  children,  who 
had  learned  to  wait  on  themselves,  took  a  candle,  and 
5      went  off  to  their  chamber,  up  stairs,  without  a  cross  or 
angry  word — something  so  unusual,  that  both  father  and 
mother  noted  it  with  surprise. 

Plying  her  needle,  sat  Mrs.  Harding,  and  near  her, 
his  hand  shading  his  face  from  the  light,  was  her  hus- 
band., almost  motionless.  In  the  minds  of  both  lingered 

L 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       101 


passages  just  read  from  the  Word  of  Life,  while  a  doep 
calmness  pervaded  their  spirits.  Not  BO  much  rebmked 
were  they  by  the  truths,  condemnatory  of  the  past, 
which  seemed  spoken  anew,  as  inspired  by  a  dawning 
hope  of  something  better  in  the  future.  A  dim  fore- 
shadowing of  better  and  happier  states  came  to  both,  and 
with  it  an  awakening  tenderness  each  for  the  other,  and 
a  deeper,  purer,  more  unselfish  love  for  their  children. 

A  little  while  they  had  heard  Andrew  and  Lucy 
moving  "about  in  the  chamber  above  ;  then  all  was  still. 
Presently  there  stole  down  a  low  murmur.  The  mother's 
hand  rested  in  her  lap,  and  she  raised  her  head  to  listen. 

"What  is  that?"  she  said,  rising  and  going  to  the 
foot  of  the  stairway. 

"  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,  and  forgive  us  our 
J    debts"  - 

This   much    she   heard   distinctly,   in    the   voice   of 
;>     Andrew. 

The  murmuring  sound  was  continued  for  a  little  while, 
:     and  then  all  was  silent. 

"  What  was  it  ?"  asked  Harding,  as  his  wife  came 
s    back  to  her  seat  by  the  table. 

A  moment  or  two  Mrs.  Harding  gazed  into  her  hus- 
band's face,  as  if  to  read  his  state  of  mind,  and  then 
s    answered  — 

"  It  was  Andrew,  saying  his  prayers." 

The  hand  that  had  been  withdrawn  from  between  the 
light  and  his  face,  was  quickly  restored  to  its  position  by 
Harding,  who  turned  himself  a  little  farther  away  from 
observation,  and  did  not  speak  for  nearly  half  an  hour. 
That  time  was  spent  in  an  almost  involuntary  review  of 
the  past,  and  in  partially  formed  purposes  to  live  a  better 
life  in  the  future  ;  if  not  for  his  own  sake,  at  least  for 
the  sake  of  his  children. 

Very  gently  did  sleep  draw  her  dusky  curtains  around 


the   weary  heads  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding  that  night. 
\ 


102  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


Morning  found  their  spirits  calm,  hopeful,  an  I  yearning 
for  the  better  life,  of  whose  beatitudes  came  to  them 
some  partial  glimpses  as  they  listened  to  the  words  of 
the  Saviour,  teaching  the  multitudes  that  gathered  to 
hear,  as  he  sat  upon  the  mountain  of  Galilee. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ONE  day,  a  few  weeks  later  in  the  course  of  events  we 
are  recording,  Miss  Gimp  was  a  little  fluttered  by  seeing 
a  handsome  carriage  draw  up  before  her  humble  dwell- 
ing. She  looked,  of  course,  for  a  richly  dressed  lady  to 
emerge  from  so  elegant  a  vehicle ;  but,  instead,  a  plainly 
attired  girl,  evidently  a  domestic  in  some  family,  stepped 
upon  the  ground.  The  dressmaker  was  already  in  the  ;> 
door. 

"  Does  Miss  Gimp  live  here  ?"  asked  the  girl. 

"  That  is   my  name :    will  you  walk  in  ?"  said  the 
dressmaker. 

The    girl    entered,   and    took    the    chair    that    was    '\ 
proffered. 

"  Are  you  very  busy  at  this  time  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Not  very,"  answered  Miss  Gimp. 
'  Have  you  a  week  to  spare  ?'^ 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  replied  the  dressmaker.     '{ 
u  Who  wants  me  for  a  week  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Barclay." 
Mrs.  Barclay,  over  at  Beech  wood  ?" 


"  Yes.     You  made  a  dress  for  her  last  fall,  I  believe." 

L 


"  Yes.     When  does  she  want  me  ?" 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       103  ! 


11  Right  away,  if  you  can  come." 

Miss  Gimp  considered  a  little  while. 

"  I  have  two  dresses  to  finish,"  said  she ;  "  after  that, 
[  can  go  to  Mrs.  Barclay." 

"How  long  will  it  take  you  to  finish  these  dresses ?" 
»ekdl  the  girl. 

"  To-day  and  to-morrow." 

"  Then  you  can  come  the  day  after  to-morrow  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  say  so  to  Mrs.  Barclay.  At  what 
time  in  the  morning  will  you  be  ready  ?" 

"  As  early  as  you  please." 

"  Say  nine  o'clock  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  girl ;  "  I  will  be  over  for  you, 
in  the  carriage,  by  that  time." 

Miss  Gimp  was  very  good  at  promising,  and  at  per- 
forming also,  when  it  suited  her  to  keep  her  engage- 
ments. In  the  present  case,  she  meant  to  be  as  good  as 
her  word,  even  though  in  keeping  her  word  to  Mrs. 
Barclay,  she  broke  it  to  her  very  particular  friends, 
Mrs.  Jarvis  and  the  storekeeper's  wife,  for  both  of  whom 
she  had  promised  to  make  dresses,  as  soon  as  the  work 
on  hand  was  finished.  The  Barclays  were  wealthy 
people,  and  she  could  afford  to  disappoint  her  less  pre- 
tending  neighbours,  for  the  sake  of  making  favour  with 
them. 

According  to  appointment,  the  handsome  carriage 
drew  up  before  the  dressmaker's  door  exactly  at  nine 
o'clock  on  the  day  agreed  upon,  and  Miss  Gimp, 
conscious  of  having  acquired  a  new  importance,  was 
>  goon  reposing  among  its  luxurious  cushions.  Past  the 
;  dwelling  of  Mrs.  Willits  drove  the  elegant  vehicle,  and 
!  Miss  Gimp  did  not  fail  to  lean  from  the  window,  to 
ff  throw  a  smile  at  the  storekeeper's  wife,  who  exclaimed 
j  to  herself — 


104  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Why,  bless  us  !     What  does  all  this  mean  ?" 

A  brisk  drive  of  half  an  hour  brought  them  to  the 
stately  residence  of  the  Barclays — the  finest  within  a 
circle  of  twenty  miles.  Mrs.  Barclay,  a  handsome  but 
dignified  woman — her  age  was  not  over  thirty-five — re- 
ceived the  dressmaker  kindly,  but  with  a  manner  that  at 
once  repelled  all  gossipping  familiarity.  She  had  sent 
for  her  as  a  workwoman,  to  perform  a  needed  service, 
and  wished  for  nothing  beyond ;  and  it  was  but  a  little 
while  before  Miss  Gimp  understood  this  clearly.  Two 
or  three  times  during  the  first  day,  she  tried  to  draw 
Mrs.  Barclay  out;  but  it  was  of  no  use — the  lady  wanted 
her  skill  as  a  dressmaker;  but,  beyond  this,  neither 
asked  nor  received  any  thing. 

"Proud — haughty — stuck  up!"  Many  tinuM  did 
Miss  Gimp  repeat  these  words  to  herself,  by  way  of  con- 
solation in  her  disappointment  at  not  being  questioned 
by  Mrs.  Barclay  about  people  for  whom  she  had  worked. 
There  were  the  Wilsons  and  the  Mayfields — she  had 
made  dresses  for  them,  and  quietly  intimated  the  fact—- 
of whom,  considering  their  position,  Mrs.  Barclay  must 
want  to  hear  the  dressmaker's  opinion.  But  not  the 
slightest  sign  of  interest  was  manifested  by  the  lady. 
Once  or  twice  Miss  Gimp  alluded  to  them,  in  a  way 
that  she  believed  would  draw  Mrs.  Barclay  out ;  but  tho 
allusion  was  met  by  a  frigid  silence. 

Mrs.  Barclay  had  a  daughter  in  her  fifteenth  year, 
who,  though  but  a  child,  was  as  reserved  to  the  dress- 
maker as  her  mother.  Miss  Gimp  tried  hard  to  win  her 
confidence  by  a  chatty  familiarity;  but  Florence  rcpalled 
all  these  advances — politely,  yet  effectually. 

On  the  second  day  of  Miss  Gimp's  rather  uncomfort- 
able sojourn  in  this  family,  where  she  was  appreciated 
only  for  her  skill  in  mantua-making,  she  heard  Mra. 
Barclay  remark  to  her  daughter  in  a  low  voice — 

"  Your  aunt  Edith  Beaufort  will  be  here  to-nv^rroa." 


Vw-rw^^ 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       105 


"  She  will !"  There  was  a  tone  of  surprise  in  the 
voice  of  Florence  that  instantly  quickened  the  ears  ol 
Miss  Gimp,  who  bent  closer  to  her  work  in  order  to 
seem  entirely  absorbed  therein. 

"  Yes.  I  got  a  note  from  her  a  little  while  ago. 
Jacob  brought  it  over,"  answered  the  mother. 

"  I  thought  she  was  going  back  to  Clinton,  aftci 
finishing  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Larch  " 

"  She  intended  doing  so  when  she  left  here ;  but  she 
wants  to  see  your  father  about  some  business  matters 
that  she  says  needs  his  attention." 

"  How  long  is  she  going  to  stay  ?"  inquired  Florence. 
"  A  week,  she  says." 

"I  don't  like  aunt  Edith,  and  I  can't  help  it,"  re- 
marked Florence.  "  I  never  feel  pleasant  when  she  is 
here ;  and  ain  always  relieved  from  a  kind  of  pressure  on 
my  feelings  when  she  goes." 

"  You  should  try  to  overcome  this,"  said  Mrs.  Bar- 
clay. "  Your  aunt  is  always  kind,  and,  I  think,  much 
attached  to  you.  She  has  her  peculiarities,  as  we  all 
have;  and  toleration  of  individual  peculiarities,  as  I  j 
have  often  said  to  you,  is  a  common  duty  we  owe  to 
each  other."  \ 

11 1  often  wish,  mother,"  replied  the  girl,  in  a  gentler     > 
tone,  "that  I  were  more  like  you — that  I  could  forget 
J    and  deny  myself  for  the  sake   of  others,  as  much  as     •! 
you  do." 

"  It  is  not  in  our  power,"  answered  Mrs.  Barclay,  "  to     < 
love  others  and  seek  their  good  by  a  mere  effort  of  the     j! 
',    mind.     Desire   is  fruitless,  unless   it  flows  into  action       f< 
lj    What  we  have  to  do,  is  to  be  externally  kind  and  for- 
^    bearing-7-to  do  that  good  for  others  which  reason  and     ', 
;    religion  enjoin  upon  us.     This  may  require  some  effort     :• 
£    and  self-denial  in  the  beginning;  but  acts,  from  right 
;    principles,  form  vessels  in  the  mind,  into  which  affec-     ;i 
'    tions  can   flow   and   find   a   permanent   abiding  place,      l; 


106       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


What  is  mere  duty  at  first,  becomes  ultimately  a   de«    s 
light." 

Florence   bent   her  head,   listening   attentively,   and     < 
seeking  to  find,  in  her  mother's  earnestly  spoken  words; 
the  power  to  overcome.     And  she  did  receive  strength.        \ 

Miss  Gimp,  whose  ears  had  taken  in  every  word  of  J 
this  conversation,  was  puzzled  to  comprehend  its  entire  ;j 
meaning.  The  words  she  understood ;  but  to  hear  such  !• 
words  from  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Barclay,  whom  she  had  re-  <; 
garded  only  as  a  proud  woman  of  the  world,  bewildered  / 
her.  Could  they  be  spoken  sincerely  ?  Yet  there  was  e 
no  room  for  doubt.  They  were  the  utterance  of  a  J 
mother — made  only  for  the  ears  of  a  beloved  and  con-  j 
fiding  child.  In  spite  of  her  wounded  self-love,  Miss  ! 
Gimp  could  not  but  feel  respect  for  Mrs.  Barclay.  From  j 
that  time,  she  was  subdued  and  reserved  in  her  pre-  ;>' 
sence. 

On  the  next  day,  aunt  Edith  Beaufort  came.  She  I 
was  a  woman  past  the  middle  age ;  tall  and  digniUed  in  ; 
person;  somewhat  proud  and  stately  in  her  carnage;  ! 
and  with  an  eye  that,  when  it  looked  at  any  one  steadily,  < 
seemed  to  reach  inward  to  the  very  thoughts.  A  close  > 
observer  would  not  fail  to  observe  a  certain  clerking  of 
her  own  purposes.  While  she  sought  to  penet.ute  every  ; 
one,  she  as  sedulously  kept  herself  impenetrabi  c. 

Mrs.  Beaufort  had  none  of  the  high-minded  scruples 
that  prevented  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Barclay,  from  list- 
ening to  the  idle  or  malicious  gossip  of  the  dressmaker. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  rather  encouraged  Miss  Gimp  to    \ 
talk.     On  the  morning  after  her  arrival,  Mrs.  Barclay 
and  her  daughter  rode  out.     They  were  gone  a  couple  of    - 
hours,  and  a  portion  of  this  time  was  spent  by  Mrs.    } 
Beaufort  in  the  department  where  the  dressmaker  was  at    i 
work. 

"What  kind  of  a  man,"  said  she,  during  a  pause  in 

VN/V 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       107 


Misn  G imp's  tittle-tattle,  "is  your  carpenter?  Hard- 
ing, I  believe,  is  his  name." 

"  Oh,  a  very  bad  sort  of  a  man,"  promptly  answered 
Miss  Gimp.  "  The  worst  man  I  ever  knew." 

A  slight  shadow  flitted  over  the  countenance  of  Mrs. 
Beaufort,  and  there  was  a  perceptible  huskiness  in  her 
voice  as  she  said — 

"  Bad  in  what  way  1" 

"  Why  in  every  way." 

"  Bad-tempered  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Beaufort. 

"  You'd  think  so,  if  you'd  ever  seen  him  among  his 
children.  He  came  near  killing  his  oldest  boy  two  or 
three  weeks  ago." 

"How?" 

"  He  stole  money,  and  lied,  and  played  truant  into  the 
bargain.  His  father  beat  him  almost  to  death." 

«  He  did !" 

"Yes,  indeed!  The  poor  little  fellow  is  only  eight 
years  old,  and  if  he  did  do  wrong,  wasn't  to  be  treated 
like  a  dog  or  a  vicious  horse." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  sighed,  and  fell  into  a  state  of  mental 
abstraction,  from  which  the  dressmaker  soon  aroused 
her,  by  saying — 

"  The  strangest  and  saddest  thing  of  all  is,  somebody 
left  a  little  helpless  infant  at  their  door  not  long  since." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  started. 

"  Well,  what  of  it  ?"  she  said,  partially  averting  her 
face. 

"What  of  it?  They  might  as  well  have  placed  a 
lamb  among  wolves." 

"You  speak  strongly,  Miss  Gimp."  Mrs.  Beaufort 
now  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her  with  a  searching  look. 
."  Have  you  heard  of  their  ill-treating  the  child  ?" 

"  Not  particularly,"  answered  Miss  Gimp.  "  Tho 
fact  is,  nobody  hardly  ever  goes  there  But  what  are 


108       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


you  to  expect  of  people  who  treat  their  own  children 
as  if  they  were  wild  animals,  instead  of  human  beings  ?" 

"  Have  you  seen  the  stranger  baby  of  whom  you 
epeak  ?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"  Oh  yes." 

"  What  kind  of  a  baby  is  it  ?" 

"  One  born  for  a  better  lot  than  that  which  has  been 
so  cruelly  assigned  to  it.  The  mother  who  could  desert 
that  child  had  a  heart  of  stone.  It  is  the  sweetest,  love- 
liest little  darling  that  ever  I  saw;  and  everybody  says 
the  same." . 

"  Does  no  one  suspect  from  whence  it  came  ?" 

Miss  Gimp  looked  knowing,  as  she  answered — 

"  Every  one  has  the  liberty  of  guessing,  you  know, 
madam." 

"  True.  But  what  ground  for  guessing  is  there  in  the 
present  case  ?" 

"  We  know  one  thing  for  certain,"  replied  Miss  Gimp 
"  It  came  not  a  hundred  miles  from  Beechwpod." 

"Ah!" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  manifested  some  surprise. 

"  What  reason  have  you  for  saying  this  ?" 

"  The  woman  who  left  it  at  Harding's  was  seen." 

•<  Who  saw  her  ?" 

There  was,  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  Beaufort,  an  evident 
desire  to  conceal  the  interest  she  felt  in  the  subject, 
which  did  not  escape  the  quick  penetration  of  Miss 
Gimp. 

"  Harry  Wilkins,  a  neighbour  of  mine,  saw  her.  He 
met  her  carrying  a  basket,  as  he  was  going  over  tc 
Boech\fOod.  She  acted  strangely,  and  this  caused  him 
to  notice  her.  As  he  was  returning  home,  he  met  her 
't  again,  without  the  basket.  It  was  on  the  very  evening 
\  the  babe  was  found." 

"And   that  is  all  you  know  about  it?"  said   Mrs. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       109 


Beaufort,  the  earnestness  of  manner,  shown  a  little  while 
before,  all  gone. 

"  All  I  know  now,  certainly,  but  not  all  I  expect  to 
know,"  replied  Miss  Gimp.  "  Harry  Wilkins  says  that 
he  got  a  good  look  at  the  young  woman's  face,  and  that 
he  would  know  it  again  among  thousands.  He  thought 
he  saw  her  about  two  weeks  ago,  and,  if  it  hadn't  been 
just  where  it  was,  he  would  have  been  sure  of  it." 

The  interest  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  reawakened. 

"  Where  did  he  think  he  saw  her  ?"  she  inquired. 

"  Over  at  Clifton." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  started.     The  eyes  of  Miss  Gimp  wer  • 
fixed  intently  upon  the  lady,  in  whose  face  she  reau      > 
much  more  than  Mrs.  Beaufort  wished  to  reveal.     Th  »     I; 
two  looked  earnestly  at  each  other  for  some  moment*,      <! 
and  then  their  eyes  fell  to  the  floor.     Nearly  a  minute 
of  silence  followed.     Mrs.  Beaufort  then  said,  with  appa- 
rent indifference  — 

"  Over  at  Clifton  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  He  was  riding  over  there  to  see  a 
man  on  some  business,  when,  just  as  he  came  in  sight  of 
the  village,  a  carriage  drove  by,  having  in  it  two  ladies. 
One  of  them,  he  is  almost  sure,  was  the  woman  he  saw 
on  the  night  the  child  was  found.  If  her  vail  hadn'f 
been  partly  over  her  face,  he  would  have  been  in  nc 
doubt  He  says  he  turned  his  horse,  and  rode  after  th 
carriage  until  he  saw  where  it  stopped." 

«  He  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Did  he  describe  the  house  ?" 

"  Yes.  It  was  a  large,  old-fashioned  stone  hotse. 
with'  beautiful  grounds  about  it," 

"Didn't  he  ask  who  lived  there?" 

"Yes;    but   he   forgot   the  name.     He's  going  over 
there  in  a  few  weeks,  and  then  he  will  learn  all  he  can 
10 


110       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


about  the  people  who  live  in  the  house.     So  you  se>«> 
ma'am,  we're  likely  to  find  out  something." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  made  no  answer,  but  sat  lost  in  the 
tangled  maze  of  her  own  thoughts  for  a  long  time.  Ever 
and  anon  the  dressmaker  would  cast  stealthy  glances 
toward  her,  but  the  lady  seemed  all  unconscious  of  ob- 
servation. Her  face,  now  in  repose,  and  taking  its  hue 
from  the  tenor  of  her  thoughts,  was  one  to  puzzle  a 
wiser  physiognomist  than  Miss  Gimp.  Its  expression,  | 
!;  even,  she  could  see,  was  bad — bad,  as  indicating  the  | 
;>  long  predominance  of  selfish  purposes  and  an  overmaster-  j 
ing  self-will.  And  yet  it  contained  traces  of  an  old  \ 
beauty.  The  lines  were  sharpened  by  pride  and  passion,  ^ 
not  rounded  by  a  debasing  sensuality.  Yet  was  not  all  !; 
bad.  A  softness  about  the  delicately  formed  mouth  and  jj 
gently  receding  chin,  showed  that  all  the  true  woman  in  '> 
her  bad  not  suffered  obliteration.  Without  speaking,  \ 
she  at  length  arose,  and  went  from  the  apartment  with  a  \ 
slow,  stately  step. 

"  I'll  read  that  riddle  before  I'm  done  with  it,"  said  \ 
the  dressmaker,  letting  her  hands  fall  into  her  lap,  the  \ 
moment  she  was  alone,  and  raising  her  body  into  an  \ 
erect  position.  "  My  lady  knows  all  about  this  matter,  ? 
or  I'm  mistaken.  Let  me  see.  Clifton  ?  Didn't  Flo-  I 
rence  Barclay  say  something  about  her  aunt's  going  } 
back  to  Clifton  ?  Be  sure,  she  did  !  I  remember  it  now 
distinctly." 

What  a  light  came  into  the  shrivelled  face  of  Misa     '• 
Gimp! 

"  And  then,"  she  continued,  "  what  interest,  I  won-  < 
der,  could  a  woman  like  her  feel  in  a  man  like  Harding,  s 
if  there  were  not  something  behind  the  curtain  ?  How  > 
did  she  know  there  was  such  a  man  ?  It's  all  clear  as  ', 
daylight.  I  see  it  as  plain  as  I  do  that  butterfly  on  the 
window.  I'll  call  at  Harry  Wilkins',  as  soon  as  I  go 
home,  and  tell  him  to  be  sure  and  find  out  the  name  of 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   IluLSEHOLD. 


them  people  the  next  time  he  goes  over  to  Clifton.     I 
wouldn't  be  much  afraid  to  bet" 

The  door  opened,  and  Mrs.  Beaufort  re-entered.  She 
Lad  a  silk  dress  in  her  hand,  one  of  the  breadths  of 
which  had  received  an  ugly  fracture. 

"  Can  you  mend  that  neatly  for  me  ?"  said  she,  as  she 
held  the  dress  toward  Miss  Grimp. 

The  latter  examined  the  rent. 

" The  edges  are  very  much  frayed  out;  but  I  will  do 
the  best  I  can." 

"  I  would  like  you  to  do  it  now.  I  wish  to  wear  the 
dress  this  afternoon." 

Miss  Gfimp  laid  aside  the  work  on  which  she  was  en- 
gaged, and  commenced  repairing  the  damaged  silk,  while 
Mrs.  Beaufort  sat  by,  looking  on. 

"  You  think,"  said  the  latter,  speaking  as  if  she  were  jj 
continuing  a  conversation,  "  that  your  neighbours  will  ? 
ill-treat  the  babe  1" 

"  If  they  ill-treat  their  own  children,  what  can  you 
hope  for  other  people's  that  fall  into  their  hands  ?  It's 
my  opinion  that  the  neighbours  ought  to  take  it  away 
from  them,  and  send  it  to  the  poor-house ;  and  I've  said 
BO  from  the  beginning.  But  what  is  everybody's  busi- 
ness is  nobody's  business." 

"  Is  Harding  getting  along  pretty  well  ?"  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort inquired,  after  a  pause. 

"  Men  like  him  never  get  along  well,"  answered  the 
uncompromising  dressmaker. 

"  Isn't  he  a  good  workman  ?" 

"  The  best  in  twenty  miles  round,  I've  heard  it  said. 
I  Jut  what  does  that  signify  ?" 

"  Does  he  drink  ?" 

"  He's  seen  too  often  at  Stark 'a  tavern,  if  that  indi- 
cates any  thing.  I  can't  say  that  he  gets  drunk;  but 
you  know  to  what  tavern-going  leads." 


riHE   AXGEI.   OF    THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


all  beforehand  in  the  world  ?"  inquired  the 
lady. 

'<  He's  in  debt  at  the  store.  Mrs.  Willits  told  me  this 
herself,  and  that  her  husband  was  going  to  stop  trusting 
him.  That  doesn't  look  very  much  to  me  as  if  he  was 
fceforehanded." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  sighed  gently,  as  if  some  unpleasant 
thought  had  flitted  across  her  mind.  Then  she  changed 
the  subject,  and  did  not  once  again  allude  to  it,  even  re- 
motely. After  the  torn  dress  was  mended,  she  thanked 
Miss  Ginip,  with  a  reserved  and  dignified  air,  and  with- 
drew from  the  room.  The  dressmaker  did  not  see  her 
again,  and  only  learned,  incidentally,  that  she  left  foi 
her  home  on  the  next  morning. 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  feeble  aspirations  for  a  better  life,  which  had 
been  awakened  in  the  breast  of  Jacob  Harding,  struggled 
not  toward  activity  without  frequent  assaults  from  the 
tempter.  Too  deeply  interwoven,  in  the  very  texture  of 
his  moral  nature,  were  evil  inclinations,  made  strong  by 
long  indulgence,  for  good  to  gain  an  easy  victory.  Hia 
life,  for  years,  had  been  one  of  disorder,  internal  as  well 
as  external ;  and  now,  when  there  came  to  him  faint  and 
far-off  glimpses  of  the  beauty  and  desirableness  of  Older, 
virtue,  and  religion,  the  new  creation  —  it  could  be 
nothing  less — seemed  so  near  to  an  impossibility,  that 
his  heart  bowed,  at  times,  hopeless — almost  despairing. 

External   causes   of  disturbance   were   added  to   the 


THE   ANOEir 


uraVcning  conflict  withn^unsonie  Jays,  every  tiling 
would  go  wrong  with  him,  and  he  would  return  to  hi.s 
home,  when  evening  closed,  in  so  fretted  a  state  of  mind, 
that  his  coming  fell  upon  his  household  like  a  shadow. 
But  the  shadow  darkened  only  for  a  little  while.  The 
presence  of  Grace  was  a  perpetual  sunshine;  and  ev^n 
the  dense  clouds  that  gathered,  at  times,  around  the  car- 
j  penter's  stormy  spirit,  could  not  shut  out  the  light  and 
;>  warmth  diffused  so  genially  around  her.  With  the  babe 
/  in  his  arms,  or  lying  against  his  breast,  the  enemies  of 
<  his  spirit  assaulted  him  in  vain.  Deeply  disturbed 

>  though  he  might  have  been  by  the  conflicts  of  the  day, 
s    peace   now   folded   her   wings  in  his   heart.     However 

much  doubt  and  despondency,  arising  from  worldly  dis- 
?  appointments,  had  overshadowed  him  with  gloom,  tha 
}  soft  cheek  of  the  little  one  was  never  laid  against  his 
i  own  without  his  feeling  a  tranquil  confidence  that,  even 
|  as  God  was  providing  for  the  helpless  innocent,  so  would 
\  he  provide  for  him.  In  the  clear  depths  of  her  beautiful 
!  eyes,  he  always  saw  a  light  that  seemed  to  make  plainer 

the  way  before  him. 
s        But,  had  not  the  babe's  influence  been  felt  by  others 
s    of  his  household,  as  well  as  by  himself,  Harding  would 
\    have  struggled  for  self-conquest  in  vain.     Happily,  over    ^ 
s'    all,  the  silent  power  of  her  beauty  and  innocence  con-     j; 
5     tinued  to  prevail;  and,  in  a  marked  degree,  over  Mrs.     J! 
Harding.     Thus,  in  the  better  life,  up  to  which  all  were     t 
voluntarily  or  involuntarily  aspiring,  a  kind  of  equipoise 
was  established.     The  disturbed  forces  had  received   a 
new  and  better  adjustment.     One  great  gain  on  the  part     ' 
s    of  both  Harding  and  his  wife  was  this  :  each  had  learned     / 
'    to  repress  the  utterance  of  captious  or  ill-natured  words.     \ 
In  former  times,  unkindness  of  thought  found   ever  a 

>  quick   outbirth  in  harsh,  exciting  language,  that  never 
I    failed  to  produce  a  storm  of  passion.     These  storms,  and 
*    thoir  often  fearful  ravages,  each  remembered  too  well; 
{  10* 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


and  in  tlie  miml  of  each  was  a  sufficient  dread  oitfieir 
recurrence  to  induce  a  watchful  self-control. 

Since  the  fearful  night  in  which  Andrew  suffered  so 
many  terrors,  there  had  been  a  marked  change  in  this 
wayward  boy.  Mr.  Long,  the  schoolmaster,  seeing  the 
^impression  that  remained,  and  feeling  for  him  a  kind  in- 
terest, made  it  a  point  to  notice  him,  and,  as  carefully 
and  judiciously  as  was  in  his  power,  awaken  and  foster 
his  self-respect.  At  least  once  a  week,  he  would  drop  in 
at  the  carpenter's,  and  never  failed,  on  these  occasions, 
j!  to  speak  a  word  in  praise  of  Andrew's  good  conduct  and 
4  studiousness.  The  lad's  gratified  look,  whenever  this 
<;  was  done,  gave  him  broad  ground  of  hope  for  tho 
j  future. 

The  change  in  Andrew  was  another  readjusted  weight 
J!     in  the  balancing  of  moral  forces  to  which  we  have  re- 
ferred.    Without  this  particular  readjustment,  the  new 
equipoise    seen   in  the  carpenter's  family   could  hardly 
have  been  maintained.     Little  trouble  was  required  in 
the   management   of    the   younger   children,    now   that 
'     Andrew's  baleful  influence  over  them  was,  in  a  great 
';     measure,   withdrawn;    and   this   left  a  diminished  evil 
>     pressure  on  the  temper  of  Mrs.  Harding. 

A  man  like  Jacob  Harding  is  never  a  popular  man. 
/     He  is  sure  to  offend  in   his   business  intercourse  with 
jj     others,  and  to  make  enemies.     Of  the  carpenter,  there     ^ 
/     were  few  to  speak  a  good  word,  beyond  the  fact  that  no 

<  better  workman  than  he  was  to  be  found.     This  repub*-     } 
s     tion  had  insured  him  work  that  otherwise  would  have     ;> 
£     found  its  way  to  the  shop  of  a  better-natured,  but  in  no 

<  way  so  reliable  a  mechanic,  who  lived  in  Beechwood. 
s     But    there   are   men   who   will  sacrifice   their  interests 

quicker  than  their  feelings.  Two  of  this  class,  who  had  ^ 
'.  employed  the  carpenter  for  some  years,  and  given  him  a  \ 
|  good  deal  of  work  in  that  time,  becoming  offended  in  !> 

consequence  of  some  hasty  words  on  tho  part  of  Harding,     i( 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       115 


withdrew  their  patronage  and  influence,  and  gave  both 
to  a  young  beginner  in  a  neighbouring  village.  One  of 
these  men  was  about  erecting  a  handsome  dwelling,  for 
which  Harding  had  furnished  a  part  of  the  plans,  and  in 
the  building  of  which  he  had  expected  to  make  a  better 
profit  than  usually  fell  to  his  share.  On  learning  tho 
decision  that  had  been  made  in  favour  of  a  rival  work- 
man, the  carpenter  was  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  dis 
couragement  so  great,  that  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  high 
mountain  were  suddenly  thrown  across  his  path.  Not  as 
had  been  usual  with  him,  when  things  went  wrong,  did 
he  give  way  to  a  burst  of  passion,  when  the  fact  was 
announced  that  his  old  customers  had  withdrawn  their 
work. 

"  All  right,"  he  answered,  in  a  voice  of  forced  calm- 
ness ;  and  the  messenger  who  brought  the  intelligence 
left  his  shop,  little  dreaming  that  the  seemingly  unmoved 
carpenter  had  wellnigh  staggered  under  his  words  as  if 
they  had  been  heavy  blows.  Upon  these  two  customers, 
Harding  had  depended  for  the  best  of  his  season's  work. 
All  his  other  engagements  were  of  minor  importance, 
and  the  profit  to  accrue  therefrom  scarcely  sufficed  to 
provide  food  for  his  table.  Of  the  causes  leading  to  this 
result  he  was  by  no  means  ignorant.  In  his  last  inter- 
view  with  both  of  the  parties,  he  had  suffered  himself  to 
get  very  much  annoyed  at  certain  propositions  which  he 
thought  involved  a  question  of  his  honesty.  Rough  and 
plain  spoken,  he  flung  back  upon  them  the  fancied  im- 
putation  in  so  offensive  a  manner  as  to  make  them 
angry,  and  they  left  him  under  a  good  deal  of  excite- 
ment. This,  he  doubted  not,  would  pass  off,  and  leave 
them  ready  to  complete  arrangements  with  him  as  be- 
fore.  But  the  sequel  showed  his  error.  •• 

Never  before  had  the  carpenter's  way  seemed  so 
closely  hedged — never  had  he  'felt  such  an  oppressive 
sense  of  doubt  and  fear  as  he  looked  into  the  future. 


116  THE  ANGEL   OP   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


Work  he  had  usually  had  in  plenty.  It  came  crowding 
in  upon  him  from  all  sides,  and  he  was  oftener  worried 
on  account  of  its  superabundance  than  concerned  for  ita 
continuance.  He  had  not  always  executed  with  prompt- 
ness ;  and  to  this  fact  might  be  traced  one  of  the  causes 
of  his  want  of  thrift. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  after  this  unpleasant  intel- 
ligence had  been  received,  and  Harding  stood  leaning  on 
his  work-bench,  the  chisel  with  which  he  had  been  cut- 
ting a  mortice  resting  idly  in  his  hand,  when  a  form 
darkened  his  shop-door,  and  a  familiar  voice  said — 

"  Good  afternoon,  friend  Harding !" 

The  carpenter  lifted  his  eyes,  and  met  the  pleasant, 
always  cheerful  face  of  Mr.  Long,  the  schoolmaster,  who 
was  on  his  way  home  after  the  close  of  his  afternoon 
session. 

"  You  seem  troubled,"  said  the  latter.  Harding  had  i 
looked  at  him,  without  replying.  "  There's  nothing  ; 
wrong  with  you,  I  hope  ?  I  thought  I'd  just  drop  in  to  ; 
say  that  Andrew  is  getting  on  finely." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it."     There  was  a  huskiness  in  the    i 
;>     carpenter's  voice,  that  betrayed  his  unhappy  state. 

"  None  of  your  family  sick,  I  hope  ?"  said  Mr.  Long,    t 
J     with  a  kind  interest  that  won  upon  the  carpenter's  feelings.     >ff 

"  All  reasonably  well,  I  thank  you." 

"  Any  thing  wrong  in  your  business  ?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say  that  there  is,"  replied  Harding. 
>     "  I  have  just  lost  my  whole  season's  work." 

"  How  comes  that  ?"  said  Mr.  Long, 

"Two  buildings  that  I  had  engaged  have  gone  into  ; 
the  hands  of  another  carpenter,  and  I  am  left  without  a  \ 
single  contract  of  any  importance." 

"  This  is  bad,"  remarked  the  schoolmaster. 

"It  is  bad  for  a  man  in  my  situation,  with  a  large  ;• 
family  on  his  hands.  What  I  am  to  do,  Heaven  only  \ 
knows !" 


_J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       117 


Mr.  Long  was  struck  with  the  tone  of  despondency 
in  which  these  words  were  uttered.  Obeying  tho 
prompting  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  answered — 

"  You  may  trust  in  Heaven,  Mr.  Harding.  He  that 
fe<Kleth  the  ravens  will  not  suffer  you  to  want." 

The  words  of  the  schoolmaster  produced  a  momentary 
disturbance  in  the  mind  of  Harding,  who  replied,  with 
some  bitterness  of  manner — 

"  Oh !  as  for  me,  I  don't  pretend  to  have  any  claima 
on  Heaven."  J 

"  All  men,"  replied  Mr.  Long,  "  have  claims  on  their  I> 
Maker  for  things  needful  to  sustain  life,  and  give  them 
the  ability  to  perform  useful  service  in  the  world.  For 
these  you  may  look  with  confidence.  Providence  never 
hedges  up  a  man's  way  in  one  direction,  without  seeing 
that  it  is  opened  in  another.  All  will  come  out  right, 
neighbour  Harding — never  fear." 

"  But  I  do  fear,"  was  the  desponding  answer.     "  To 
my  knowledge,  no  one  else  is  going  to  build  this  sum- 
mer.    Unless  there  comes  a  hurricane,  unroofing  half  a     > 
dozen  barns  and  houses,  I  see  no  chance  of  a  sufficiency 
of  work  during  the  season." 

Harding  said  this  with  affected  humour;  yet  his  tones  $ 
failed  to  conceal  the  bitterness  and  distrust  within. 

"  Not  a  good  direction  for  any  one's  thoughts  to  flow,"  <! 
said  Mr.  Long,  seriously.  "  Providence  will  open  the  [> 
way  before  you,  I  trust,  without  the  aid  of  hurricanes,  or  £ 
any  other  ministers  of  destruction." 

"  I  hope  so ;  but  I  see  little  to  encourage  me." 

Even  while  the  carpenter  said  this,  a  neighbouring 
farmer  entered  his  shop,  and  asked  the  question — 

"  Are  you  very  busy  just  now,  Mr.  Harding  ?" 

"  Not  particularly  so,"  was  answered. 

"  Will  you  call  over,  and  see  me  in  the  morning  ? 
I  wish  to  talk  with  you  about  putting  a  new  roof  on  my     £ 
barn.     I  did  tuiok  of  trusting  U  uotil  next  spring  bu* 


r 

118  THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


I've  been  examining  it  rather  closely  to-day,  and  don't 
think  it  will  be  safe  to  run  the  risk,  especially  as  there  is 
every  prospect  of  large  crops  this  summer.  In  fact,  I've 
decided  to  have  a  new  roof.  So,  if  you'll  call  over  to- 
morrow morning,  we  will  arrange  to  have  it  done." 

Harding  promised  to  see  the  farmer  bright  and  early 
on  the  next  morning.  Receiving  this  assurance,  the 
latter  departed.  The  schoolmaster  had  remained  during 
this  brief  interview,  and  when  the  farmer  left,  remarked, 
with  a  smile — 

"It  is  true  as  I  said,  neighbour  Harding.  Provi- 
dence never  hedges  up  a  man's  way  in  one  direction, 
without  opening  it  in  another." 

"But  what's  the  use  of  it  all?"  replied  the  carpenter. 
"  I  would  call  this  kind  of  business  mere  child's  play. 
Smith's  money  is  just  as  good  as  Jones's,  and  will  buy 
as  much  pork  and  corn  meal.  And  as  for  the  work,  one 
job  is  about  as  easy  as  another." 

"  Did  it  never  occur  to  you,"  said  Mr.  Long,  "  that  in 
the  dealings  of  Providence  with  men,  something  beyond 
the  provision  of  mere  food  and  raiment  was  involved. 
Have  your  thoughts  never  reached  beyond  the  question 
of  pork  and  corn  meal  ?" 

"I  don't  understand  you."  The  carpenter  looked 
slightly  bewildered. 

"  Man  has  two  lives,"  said  Mr.  Long  :  "  a  life  of  the 
body  and  a  life  of  the  mind.  To  one  of  these  lives  has 
been  appointed  a  comparatively  short  duration;  the 
other  is  unending." 

The  carpenter  leaned  his  head  in  an  attitude  of  atten- 
tion ;  seeing  which,  Mr.  Long  continued — 

"  God  is  an  eternal  being ;  and  it  is  plain,  from  the  fact 
that  he  has  given  to  the  spirit  of  man  an  eternal  exist- 
ence, that  he  must  regard  the  wants  and  destiny  of  the 
spirit  as  in  every  way  of  primary  account,  when  com- 
pared with  the  wants  and  destiny  of  the  body.  Let  this 


THE    ANGEL   OF  T1IE   HOUSEHOLD.  119 


thought  find  a  distinct  resting-place  in  your  mind,  neigh- 
bour Harding,  and  then  you  will  begin  to  have  some 
glimpses  of  higher  truths." 

The  schoolmaster  paused  for  some  moments,  in  order 
to  let  his  words  make  their  due  impression. 

"  From  which  have  you  suffered  most  in  life  ?"  re- 
sumed Mr.  Long.  "  From  sickness  of  the  body,  or  sick- 
ness of  the  mind  ?" 

"  Sickness  of  the  mind  ?"  Harding  did  not  clearly 
apprehend  the  question;  and  the  schoolmaster  modified 
it  thus — 

"  I  should  have  said,  from  pain  of  body,  or  pain  of 
mind  ?" 

"  I've  p'sver  had  much  sickness/'said  Harding,  beginning 
to  have  a  dim  perception  of  the  schoolmaster's  meaning. 

"  And  yet  you  have  suffered  deeply.  Mentally — or  in 
your  spirit — you  were  in  great  pain  only  a  little  while  ago." 

"  True,  very  true."  The  carpenter  spoke  partly  to 
himself,  as  if  new  thoughts  were  coming  into  distinct 
perception.  "  Yes,  indeed,  I  have  suffered  pain  of  mind. 
I  always  suffer  pain  of  mind.  As  for  bodily  suffering,  I 
can  bear  that ;  but  mental  suffering  drives  me,  at  times, 
almost  beside  myself." 

"  Did  you  never  think  of  this  before  ?"  asked  the 
schoolmaster ;  "  that  is,  did  you  never  separate  so  dis- 
tinctly, in  thought,  your  mind  from  your  body,  and  see 
in  each  a  distinct  capacity  for  pleasure  and  pain  ?" 

"  Never.  And  yet  it  seems  strange  how  1  could  have 
failed  to  do  so." 

"  If  pain  of  mind  is  more  acute  than  pain  of  body," 
said  Mr.  Long,  "  is  it  not  fair  to  conclude  that  the  mind, 
or  spirit,  is  capable  of  far  higher  pleasures  than  the 
body?" 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  that  it  is." 

"  Let  us  take  it  for  granted — and  this  is  no  difficult 
matter — that  God,  our  Creator,  Preserver,  and  Re- 


THE  ANGEL  OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


doeiner,  is  a  Being  of  infinite  benevolence — that  love  is 
his  essential  nature :  it  will  follow  as  a  consequence, 
that  he  not  only  desires,  but  seeks  the  good  of  his  crea- 
tures. You  are  one  of  this  number ;  and  one  toward 
whom  his  heart  must  be  moved  with  pity,  for  your  spirit 
has  suffered  much.  Thus  far  in  life,  you  have  known 
little  of  the  true  enjoyment  that  God  desires  for  all  the 
children  of  men.  Vainly  have  you  sought  for  pleasure 
in  sensual  delights :  they  have  proved  only  serpents  to 
sting  you.  What  a  dark,  weary  way  it  has  been  to 
you !" 

"Yes,  dark  as  Egypt  at  times,"  muttered  the  car- 
penter. 

"Let  us  go  back  a  little,"  said  the  schoolmaster. 
"  It  is  plain,  that  in  the  way  you  have  been  going,  mat- 
ters have  not  improved  much.  You  are  no  happier  now 
than  you  were  six  months  ago." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  answered  Harding.  "  I 
don't  know  about  that.  Maybe  you  may  think  me 
foolish,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Since  that  strange  baby 
came  into  our  family,  I  have  felt  like  another  man.  I 
don't  know  how  it  is,  but  the  dear  little  thing  has  crept 
right  into  my  heart,  and  brought  with  it  something  of 
its  pure  and  gentle  nature.  The  truth  is,  Mr.  Long, 
I'm  not  the  same  man  I  was  before  Heaven  sent  that 
child  to  my  door." 

"  Heaven  sent  it.  You  have  used  the  right  words, 
neighbour  Harding.  All  good  gifts  are  from  Heaven 
In  love  to  you,  God  bestowed  this  blessing ;  not  to  give 
case,  or  comfort,  or  pleasure  to  your  body,  but  for  the 
health  and  joy  of  your  spirit.  Ah  !  I  am  glad  to  hear 
this  confession  from  your  lips.  And  now  let  me  suggest 
a  thought.  May  not  the  disappointment  you  have  suf- 
fered to-day,  and  which  was  for  a  time  so  bitter,  be  pro- 
ductive of  higher  benefits  than  any  you  could  have  re- 
ceived, had  all  things  gone  according  to  your  wishes?" 


THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD.  1'21 


"I  do  not  see  your  meaning  clearly,"  said  the  car- 
penter. 

"  Our  present  conversation  would  otherwise  hardly 
have  occurred,"  suggested  Mr.  Long. 

"  No ;  I  think  not." 

"  Is  it  not  clear,  then  ?     Think." 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Harding,  in  a  thought- 
ful manner.  "  You  have  certainly  filled  my  mind  with 
new  ideas.  Come  over  and  see  me  in  the  evening  some- 
times, won't  you?  I'd  like  to  talk  with  you  again  of 
these  things.  They  sound  strangely — and  yet  my  mind 
assents  to  them  as  true." 

"  Nothing  is  truer,"  replied  the  schoolmaster,  "  than 
that  the  eyes  of  God  are  over  all  his  works,  and  that  he 
leadeth  his  erring  creatures  by  ways  that  they  know  not, 
ever  seeking  to  bring  them  from  the  darkness  of  natural 
evil  into  the  pure  light  of  his  truth.  And  thus  he  is 
seeking  to  lead  you,  neighbour  Harding.  Ah !  resist 
not,  but  gently  yield  yourself  to  the  divine  guidance. 
But  I  have  said  enough  for  the  present.  Yes,  I  will  call 
over  and  see  you,  and  if  you  still  find  interest  in  these 
subjects,  we  will  talk  of  them  again." 

What  a  change  had  taken  place  with  the  carpenter  in 
the  brief  space  of  half  an  hour! — a  change  from  deep 
agitation  of  mind,  and  a  paralyzing  distrust,  to  a  calm 
and  hopeful  spirit.  Not  to  the  fact  of  work  having  come 
from  an  unexpected  quarter,  was  this  chiefly  to  be  as- 
cribed.  That  was  but  the  foundation,  so  to  speak,  on 
which  a  higher  and  juster  conception  of  Providence  had 
been  erected.  His  step  was  firmer,  his  head  more  ele- 
vated, and  his  countenance  marred  by  fewer  lines  of 
care,  as  he  took  his  way  homeward.  No  shadow  fell 
across  the  threshold  as  he  entered;  and  no  heart  shrunk 
with  fear  at  the  sound  of  his  voice,  that  seemed  to  hava 
found  new  tones  and  gentle  modulations. 
11 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  schoolmaster's  words,  only  dimly  apprehended  at 
first,  lingered  in  the  mind  of  Harding;  and,  as  he  pcn- 
dered  them,  new  suggestions  came,  and  new  light  seemed    j> 
to  break  in  upon  him.     There  was  a  higher  and  better    ? 
life  than  the  life  of  the  body — wants  that  no  natural    ^ 
sources  could  supply — sufferings  that   no   earthly  phy- 
sician could  alleviate.     How  clear  all  this  became  the 
longer  his  mind  rested  on  what  his  neighbour  had  said ! 
and  he  half  wondered  that,  until  now,  no  perception  of    s 
such  important  truths  had  come  to  him. 

Happily,  all  things  at  home  harmonized  with  the  car-    < 
penter's  state  of  mind  on  that  evening.     Andrew   he    'f 
found,  on  his  return,  busy  over  his  lesson;   Lucy  had    £ 
dear  little  Grace  in  her  arms;    and  Lotty  and   Philip,    j; 
who  rarely  disagreed  if  no  one  interfered  with  them,    <! 
were  playing  together,  and  singing  to  themsalves  as  hap-    > 
pily  as  if  nothing  had  ever  ruffled  the  quiet  surface  of    \ 
their  feelings.     The  influence  of  Mr.  Long  over  Andrew,    \ 
since  his  particular  interest  in  him  had  been  awakened,    j 
and  since  he  had  discovered  the  right  avenue  by  which    \ 
to  reach  his  feelings,  was  remarkable.     Having  secured 
the  good  opinion  of  Mr.  Long — to  have  the  good  opinion 
of  any  one  was  a  new  experience  for  the  lad — Andrew 
was  particularly  desirous  to  retain  it.     A  kind  look — an 
approving  word — what  ample  rewards  were  they  for  all    ;> 
effort  and  self-denial !     In  these  he  found  a  pleasure  far    j> 
above  any  thing  that  evil  indulgence   or   wrong-doing    '} 
gave;  and,  best  of  all,  they  left  no  sad,  painful  after- 
consequences. 

"That's    ri^bt     Andrew,"    said    Mr.  Harding,    ap-    ^ 


THE   ANGEL   OF   TUB   HOUSEHOLD.  ll>3      '< 


provingly,  as  he  came  in  and  saw  how  the  boy  was 
occupied.  "  It  gives  me  real  pleasure  to  see  you  study- 
ing  your  lessons." 

What  a  glow  of  delight  did  these  words  send  to  the 
heart  of  the  boy  !  What  a  beaming  smile  irradiated  his 
countenance,  as  he  looked  up,  gratefully,  into  his  father's 
face ! 

Mr.  Harding  laid  his  hand  gently  upon  Andrew's 
head.  The  act  was  involuntary,  and  sprung  from  a 
passing  mood  of  gentler  feeling.  How  the  touch 
thrilled  along  every  nerve  in  the  child's  being !  Memory 
was  at  fault  in  her  efforts  to  recall  the  time  when  that 
hand  rested  upon  him  in  affectionate  approval  before. 
Lower  bent  his  head,  and  closer  to  his  face  was  the  book 
lifted.  None  saw  that  his  eyes  were  suddenly  dimmed, 
and  none  but  he  knew  that  the  page  before  him  was 
wetted  by  a  tear. 

A  cry  of  pleasure  from  the  babe  now  greeted  the  ears 
of  Harding ;  and,  in  the  next  moment,  Grace  was  in  his 
arms,  and  hugged  tightly  to  his  heart.  At  this  instant, 
a  shadow  fell  across  the  threshold — the  twilight  was 
already  gathering — and  the  strange  woman,  who  had 
visited  them  a  few  weeks  previously,  stood  in  the  door. 
Her  dark,  keen  eyes  took  in  the  whole  scene  presented 
to  her  at  a  glance. 

"Good  evening,  friends,"  she  said,  half  familiarly, 
half  respectfully ;  and,  without  invitation,  she  entered. 

"  Good  evening,  madam,"  returned  Harding,  ap- 
preaching  her  by  a  step  or  two.  Grace  had  laid  her 
head  close  against  his  breast,  and  was  nestling  there  with 
a  happy,  confiding  look  on  her  sweet  young  face. 

"  Will  you  take  a  chair,  madam  ?" 

The  chair  was  proffered  and  accepted.  At  the  same 
time,  the  woman  laid  off  her  bonnet. 

"  You  were  so  kind  at  my  last  visit,  that  I  hardly  feel 
like  a  stranger,"  said  sh"*,  03  she  adjusted  her  cap,  and 


124       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

,^ ^_ 

•'     pushed  back  under  it  a  portion  of  her  black  hair,  in 

^     which  gray  lines  were  visible. 

J         "  That  dear  babe,  again/'  she  added,  as  she  fixed  her 

)  eyes  intently  on  Grace.  "  I  never  saw  a  lovelier  crea- 
Ure." 

Mrs.  Harding   entered,   at   this    moment,   from    the    : 
kitchen,   where   she   had   been   preparing  supper.      At 
sight  of  the  woman,  she  started,  and  looked  disturbed. 
"  Good  evening,  ma'am." 

The  stranger  fixed  her  eyes  penetratingly  upon  her. 
"  Good  evening,"  was  coldly  replied. 
"  In  passing  this  way  again,  I  could  not  resist  the  in-    < 
clination  to  call,  if  for  no  other  reason  than  to  thank  you    ; 
for  your  former  kindness,  and  to  apologize  for  my  abrupt    > 
departure.     It  was  necessary  for  me  to  be  at  Beech  wood    ' 
at  a  very  early  hour,  and  I  did  not  wish  to  disturb  you,    • 

',     or  tax  your  hospitality  for  an  early  breakfast." 

The  blandness  and  easy  self-possession  with  which  this    j 

/     was  said,  in  a  measure  overcame  the  instinctive  repug-    ; 

i  nance  of  Mrs.  Harding.  Still,  she  did  not  like  the 
woman,  and  felt  ill  at  ease  in  her  presence.  With  as 
good  a  grace  as  possible,  she  bade  her  welcome.  From 
the  woman's  manner,  it  was  evidently  her  intention  to 
remain  to  supper,  and,  in  all  probability,  through  the 
night.  Indeed,  she  soon  intimated  this  to  the  carpenter 

;j  and  his  wife,  who  could  do  no  less  than  invite  her  to 
remain  with  as  much  show  of  cordiality  as  possible. 

<;     The  object  of  her  visit  was  matter  of  little  question  to 

;,'  them.  Too  distinct  was  their  remembrance  sf  her  con- 
duct on  a  previous  occasion — and  of  the  intimations  then 

"$     given  by  her — to  leave  any  room  to  doubt  that  she  had 

^  a  personal  interest  in  Grace,  and  now  came  solely  on 
this  account. 

All  eye  and  all  ear  was  the  stranger  to  every  thing 

5  that  passed  in  the  family  of  Jacob  Harding.  The  car- 
penter's face  she  iianued  with  so  close  a  scrutiny,  that 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       125 


he  often  found  his  eyes  drooping  beneath  the  singular 
gaze  that  was  fixed  upon  him.  The  movements  of  Mrs. 
Harding  were  also  closely  observed,  and  not  a  word 
passed  between  the  children  that  she  did  not  weigh  its 
meaning. 

Whether  it  were  from  the  presence  of  this  dignified 
•tranger,  or  from  the  subduing  effects  of  better  states  of 
mind,  the  children  were  unusually  well-behaved  and 
orderly  during  supper-time.  Lucy  proposed  to  wait  and 
be  the  nurse  of  Grace  during  the  meal;  although  her 
mother  said  that  she  could  hold  the  babe  and  attend  the  s 
table  well  enough. 

After  supper,  the  woman  succeeded,  after  many  inef- 
fectual attempts,  in  alluring  Grace  from  Mr.  Harding.     >} 
The  little  one  looked  half  frightened  as  she  passed  to  the     ; 
',    arms  of  the  stranger,  and  then  immediately  reached  out 
^    her  hands  to  go  back.     But,   being  retained,  her  lips 
;    began  to  curve,  and  a  low  murmur  of  fear  was  audible. 

"  Come   back,    then,    darling !"    said    the   carpenter, 
ff    lovingly;  and  he   took  her  from  the  woman  almost  by     '. 
;    force.     What  a  happy  change  was  se*eu  instantly  in  the 
i    sweet  young  face,  and  with  what  a  manifest  joy  did  the     \ 
I    little  one  shrink  to  the  manly  breast,  and  cling  there  as     £ 
!;    if  it  had  found  a  home  of  safety  ! 

s         "  You  love  that  child  ?"  said  the  woman.     Her  tones 
'f    were  grave,  and  her  proud  lips  firm. 

"  Yes;  better  than  any  thing  in  this  world." 
\        "  It  is  not  your  own  child  ?"  added  the  woman. 

*'  It  is  mine  by  the  gift  of  God,"  said  the  carpenter, 
with  a  depth  of  feeling  in  his  voice  that  surprised  his 
auditor.  "  Some  one — I  do  not  think  she  is  worthy  the 
name  of  woman — deserted  it  at  our  door." 

The  woman  moved  uneasily,  and  partly  averted  her 
face. 

"  Abandoned,"  continued  the  carpenter,  "  by  her  to 
whom  God  had  gi^en  a  precious  gift,  the  guardianship 


126  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


was  transferred  to  us.  We  have  accepted  it  gladly—- 
thankfully. And  who  will  now  dare  say  the  child  is  not 
ours  ?  Such  words  must  not  be  spoken  here  !" 

The  natural  warmth  of  Harding's  temperament  be- 
trayed him  into  an  indignant  vehemence,  which  caused 
the  woman  to  shrink  back  from  him  a  little  way,  and  to 
look  surprised,  almost  fearful. 

"  We  cannot  hear  such  words  spoken,"  repeated  the 
carpenter,  in  a  gentler  voice.  "G-od  sent  an  angel  to 
our  household  when  he  sent  this  babe;  and  we  have 
made  room  for  her — room  for  her  in  our  home,  and  room 
for  her  in  our  hearts." 

The  woman  sat  for  some  time  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
floor.  She  was  evidently  in  deep  thought. 

"  Rather  say" — thus  she  spoke  in  a  low  voice — "  that  J 
God  lent  her  to  you — lent  her,  it  may  be,  only  for  a  little  ! 
while.  It  is  not  well  to  fix  the  heart  too  idolizingly  ; 
upon  a  child.  What  if  her  real  mother  were  to  come  J 
and  claim  her  at  your  hands  ?" 

"  There  is  her  true  mother,"  said  the  carpenter,  ; 
firmly,  and  he  pointed  toward  his  wife.  "  A  woman  ^ 
gave  her  life,  but  she  gave  her  love — a  mother's  love. 
Her  real  mother !  Madam  !  I  would  spurn  from  the  ', 
door  the  wretch  who  dared  say  that  she  brought  into  exist-  ;> 
ence  this  sweet  young  cherub,  and  then  abandoned  her  .; 
to  perish,  or,  mayhap,  find  an  unwelcome  home  among  $ 
strangers." 

"  Can  an  evil  tree  produce  good  fruit  ?"  asked  the  \ 
woman,  looking  at  the  excited  carpenter  almost  sternly.  £ 

"  It  is  said  not,"  he  replied. 

"  Could  an  evil-hearted  mother  give  birth  to  so  angelio 
a  babe  ?  Think,  Mr.  Harding." 

"  Could  a  good-hearted  woman  abandon  her  nursing  ;j 
infant?  Think,  madam." 

The  woman's  glance  cowered  beneath  the  steady  eyes  >, 
of  the  carpenter 


I 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       127 

u  Can  a  sweet  fountain  send  forth  bitter  waters  ?" 
The  man  spoke  half  tc  himself.  "  No — no — no." 

"State  the  case  as  you  will,"  said  the  woman,  "and 
the  difficulty  is  the  same.  Here  is  a  babe  in  which 
all  goodness  seems  concentrated — I  cannot  believe, 
nor  can  you,  that  the  mother  who  gave  it  birth  was  all 
evil." 

"  Why  did  she  abandon  it  ?"  replied  the  carpenter. 

"  Ah  !  there  lies  the  question.     Do  you  know  ?" 

"  You  need  not  ask." 

"She  may  not  have  acted  freely.  There  may  have 
been  an  array  of  circumstances  that  crushed  out,  for  a 
time,  her  true  life.  I  can  more  easily  believe  this,  than 
that  her  heart  was  all  evil.  The  baby  in  your  arma 
contradicts  that  assumption." 

"  Mercy !" 

This  was  the  startled  exclamation  of  Mrs.  Harding,  aa 
she  arose  quickly  to  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  door,  which  had  swung  slowly  open.  Every  glance 
followed  her  own.  A  beautiful  young  woman,  with  face 
as  white  as  marble,  stood  there,  motionless — statue-like. 
That  face  the  carpenter's  wife  remembered  but  too  well. 
She  had  seen  it  once  before,  as  it  stood  out  on  the  back- 
ground of  darkness,  and  every  feature  was  daguerreo- 
typed  on  her  memory. 

"  Edith  !     You  here  !     What  madness  !     Go  !  go !" 

The  woman  started  up,  and  raising  both  hands, 
motioned  her  energetically  to  be  gone. 

"  Baby  !  baby  !     Oh,  my  sweet  baby  !" 

And  the  young  creature  bounded  forward.  Ere  the 
bewildered  carpenter  had  time  to  recover  his  self-pos- 
session, she  had  lifted  Grace  from  his  arms,  and  was 
hugging  her  wildly  to  her  heart. 

"  Oh  baby  !  Grace  !  Darling  I"  What  a  passionate 
tenderness  was  in  her  voice !  "  I  was  wicked,  wicked, 
wicked  to  give  you  up '  But  you  are  once  more  againat  £ 

•».-VW— * 


\   128       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

\     my  heart,  and  we  will   live  or  die  together !     Baby  I 
s     Sweet  one  !     Oh  !  darling  !  darling  I" 

She  had  moved  about  the  room  like  one  half  crazed ; 

but  now,  as  a  shower  of  tears  fell  over  her  face,  she 

dropped  into  a  chair,  and  leaning  over  the  child,  which 

she  held  close  to  her  bosom,  she  mingled  kisses,  sobs, 

j     and   tears,    for   some   minutes,   in   a  very   tempest   of 

;>     emotion. 

Meantime,  the  elder  of  the  two  women  showed  strong 
f.  agitation,  that  was  repressed  only  by  a  vigorous  effort. 
Now  her  face  was  dark  with  struggling  passion ;  and 
now  so  pale  and  ghastly,  that  it  seemed  as  if  her  very 
life's  love  were  suffering  its  final  assault.  As  soon  as 
the  first  bewildering  excitement  was  over,  she  went  up 
to  the  young  woman,  and  laying  her  hand  upon  her 
with  a  firm  grasp,  said,  in  a  tone  of  remonstrance — 

"  What  madness  has  come  over  you,  Editu  ?  Give 
back  the  child,  and  come  away.  It  is  as  well  cared  for 
as  you  or  I  could  desire." 

The  other  waved  her  hand  with  an  imperative  gesture 
as  she  replied — 

"  It  is  useless,  mother !  My  resolve  is  taken.  I  will 
not  part  with  my  child.  Mine  it  is — mine,  born  in  law- 
ful wedlock,  and  there  is  no  earthly  power  strong  enough 
to  drag  it  from  my  arms.  You  may  turn  from  me,  if 
you  will.  You  may  shut  up  your  heart  against  me ;  but 
mine  shall  be  open  to  my  child — my  darling,  darliug 
child  !  Sweet,  sweet  baby  I" 

And  she  again  hugged  it  to  her  heart. 
"  The  fountain  is  not  dry  yet,  love,"  she  murmured, 
in  a  low,  tender  voice,  as  she  bared  her  bosom,  and  drew     s 
»     the  babe's  soft  face  against  it.     "  Drink  again — drink !     ,; 
!>     I  have  kept  it  open  for  this  hour — this  hour  that  my     jj 
•     heart  told  me  would  come — must  come.     There — there.     ;• 
'/     Drink,  baby — -drink.     Drink,  and  God  bleas  you !" 

And  as  the  babe  commenced  drawing  sweet  life  frou»    < 


I 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       129 

thia   fountain   of    life,   the   mother's   eyes   were    lifted 
heavenward.     Her  cheeks  glowed,  and  a  thrill  of  exqui-     J 
site  joy  trembled  along  every  fibre  of  her  soul. 

"  Father,"  she  sobbed,  "  let  my  tears  and  thankful- 
ness for  this  hour  of  restoration,  obliterate  the  record 
that  darkens  one  page  of  my  life's  sad  history." 

This  scene  was  more  than  the  woman  she  called  her 
mother  could  witness  unsubdued.     Hitherto  her  impo-     ( 
rious  will  had  ruled  her  complying  child.     But  nature—     ^ 
free  nature — had  now  asserted  her  right,  and  swept  aside     !; 
all  opposing  forces.     In  Edith's  heart,  the  mother's  love 
was  stronger  than  the  daughter's  fear. 

"  Edith,  what  am  I  to  understand  by  all  this  ?"  said 
the  woman,  speaking  with  a  resolute  calmness. 

"  That  I  am  ready  to  give  up  all  for  my  child." 

"  Give  up  me  ?" 

The  woman  held  her  breath  for  an  answer.  Edith 
did  not  reply,  but  bent  lower  over  her  babe,  and  drew  it 
closer  to  her  heart. 

"  Give  up  me  ?"  repeated  the  woman. 

"  Mother !    As  God  liveth,  I  will  keep  this  child.     If 
you  turn  from  me — if  you  cast  me  off — well;  but,  as     '• 
God  liveth,  I  will  keep  my  child  !" 

For  a  little  while  the  frame  of  the  other  quivered,  as 
if  attacked  by  a  sudden  ague  fit.     Then  stepping  back  a 
pace  or  two,  she  stood  a  few  moments  irresolute.     The 
door  of  the  adjoining  room  was  partly  open.     Into  this     £ 
she  now  passed  with  a  quick  movement.     A  struggle     <; 
had  commenced  that  she  wished  to  sustain  all  apart  from 
observation.     Nearly  ten  minutes  elapsed  before  her  re-      > 
appearance.     Scarcely  a  change  of  position  or  relation 
had  occurred  during  her  brief  absence.     Her  face  wag      j 
very  calm,   her  step  deliberate,   and  her  manner   self-      ' 
possessed,  like  one  who  has  passed  from  doubtful  ques-     •; 
tionings  to  a  certainty. 


130  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


"1 


Going  up  to  her  daughter,  she  laid  her  hand  again 
upon  her,  saying,  as  she  did  so — 

"  Edith,  my  child  !" 

The  voice  was  low,  calm,  and  even  tender. 

"  Mother !" 

It  was  the  bowed  creature's  simple  response.  She  did 
not  look  up. 

"  Edith,  I  may  have  erred — I  know  not.  If  so,  it  has 
been  for  your  sake.  Love  and  pride  have  both  been 
strong.  But  we  will  contend  no  longer.  In  the  future, 
your  own  heart  must  lead  you :  I  will  oppose  nothing." 

An  electric  thrill  seemed  suddenly  to  awaken  the  half- 
dormant  sensibilities  of  the  young  mother.  She  looked 
up  with  a  blending  of  joy  and  surprise  in  her  counte- 
nance. 

"  What  do  I  hear  ?     Speak  the  words  again." 

"  We  will  contend  no  longer,  Edith.  In  the  future, 
your  own  heart  must  lead  you :  I  will  oppose  nothing." 

The  eyes  of  Edith  closed  as  she  leaned  her  head  back 
against  her  mother,  whose  arm  now  clasped  her.  How 
placid  was  her  pale  young  face ! — how  soft,  and  tender, 
and  loving  the  sweet  lips  just  parting  with  a  smile  ! 

"  You  have  made  me  happy.  Can  a  mother  ask  more 
for  her  child  ?" 

It  was  all  she  said;  but  the  words  went  trembling 
down  into  the  agitated  heart  of  that  strong,  self-willod 
woman  of  the  world,  and  accomplished  their  mission. 

A  kiss — long  and  fervent — sealed  the  reconciliation 
and  new  compact. 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       131 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHILE  this  scene  was  passing,  little  Lotty  had  crept 
mto  her  mother's  lap,  and  was  lying  with  her  head  close 
against  her  bosom.  Since  Grace  came  among  them, 
Lotty  had  found  a  new  pleasure.  She  never  tired  of 
being  with  the  babe,  and  the  babe  never  seemed  happier 
than  when  Lotty  was  bending  over  her,  and  talking  to 
her  in  a  language  that  only  they  understood. 

"Is  she  going  to  take  Grace  away  from  us?"  she 
whispered  two  or  three  times  to  her  mother,  as  she 
looked  on  wonderingly,  yet  with  an  instinct  of  the 
truth. 

Mrs.  Harding  did  not  reply,  for  she  could  not ;  but, 
at  each  renewal  of  the  question,  her  arm  drew,  with  an 
involuntary  pressure,  the  little  one  closer  to  her  breast.  J 

"  I'll  be  your  little  Grace,  mother." 

These  words,  so  unexpected,  thrilled  a  new  chord  in  ;! 
her  heart.  J 

"  Grace  is  so  sweet  and  so  good,"  she  answered,  more  ^ 
from  impulse  than  thought.  The  words  were  scarcely  j 
uttered,  ere  she  felt  that  they  were  spoken  unwisely. 

"  I  will  try  to  be  good." 

There  was  a  pleading  softness  in  Lotty's  tones  that  >> 
touched  the  mother's  sensibilities.  She  was  asking  for  a  £ 
love,  deeper,  purer,  truer  than  she  had  ever  known —  i 
such  a  love  as  she  had  seen  given  to  another.  j,1 

"  I  will  try  to  be  good,  mother.  I  will  try  to  be  like  ? 
Grace.  But  they  won't  take  her  away,  will  they  j; 
mother  ?"  < 

"  I  hope  not,  dear."  J 

"  If  they  do,  mother,  shan't  I  be  your  little  Grace  7" 


132  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


"Yes,  if  you  will  be  good,  like  Grace." 


"I  can't  be  good  just  like  her.     But  I'll  try,  mother. 


And  you  won't  scold  me  so,  will  you,  mother  ?  Talk  to 
me  sweet  and  good,  just  as  you  tali  to  Grace — won't  you, 
mother?" 

And  now  the  child's  aims  were  stealing  around  the    5 
neak  of  Mrs.  Harding,  and  her  eyes  were  looking  up 
,     into  her  face,  pleading  and  filled  with  tears. 

What  language  could  have  been  more  rebuking,  more    <j 
softening,  more  subduing?     It  penetrated  to  the  re/y 
f.     inmost  of  her  consciousness.     Her  only  answer  was  a    ^ 
strong  embrace.     How  her  heart  enlarged  toward  Lotty  !    £ 
"  You  will  love  me,  mother,  if  I'm  good  ?" 
The  child  was  not  satisfied  with  mere  dumb  show.  |> 

"  Oh  yes,  my  dear  one  !"  answered  Mrs.  Harding,  in  a    j; 
voice  whose  tenderness  satisfied  the  heart  of  Lotty.     "I    ^ 
«;     will  love  you.     Be  a  good  little  girl,  and  I  will  love  you    \ 
i     just  as  well  as  I  love  Grace." 

"  I  will  be  so  good,  mother,"  murmured  the  happy    •! 
s     little  one,  as  she  hid  her  face,  and  wept  for  very  joy. 

Thus   she   was   lying,    when    the   elder   of  the    twc     ^ 
\     strangers,  turning  from  her  daughter,  between  whom  and     '', 
I;     herself  so  singular  a  reconciliation  had  taken  place,  said, 
f,     addressing  Mr.  Hardiag  in  a  calm  voice — - 

"  My  friend,   there   was   a  meaning  in  the  words  I     <! 
I;     spoke   a  little  while  ago,  that  went  beyond  my   own     ^ 
J     thoughts.     This  young  woman — the  mother  of  Grace — 
;j     is  ray  child.     I  did  not  expect  her  here  this  evening — 
s     nothing  could  have  been  farther  from  my  anticipations. 
I  knew  that  she  was  almost  dying  to  see  her  child — to 
have  it  again  in  her  arms,  and  I  feared  that  its  restora- 
tion might  become  necessary.     Why  she  abandoned  it  at 
\     your  door,  cannot  now  be  explained ;  neither  can  we  re- 
veal who  we  are,  or  where  we  came  from.     That  secret, 
f     for  the  present,  must  remain  with  ourselves.     Enough, 
that  the  child  is  ours,  and  now  returns  to  its  true  home 


i 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       133 


and  its  true  mother  You  and  your  excellent  wife  will 
never  be  forgotten.  My  daughter  has  a  heart  that  can 
feel  gratitude — bad  as  you  have  pronounced  her — and 
this  you  will,  ere  long,  know.  Let  me  ask  of  you  one 
thing,  and  that  is,  silence  as  to  the  occurrences  of  this 
evening." 

The  carpenter  sat  with  his  eyes  upon  the  floor,  during 
all  the  time  that  the  woman  was  speaking. 

As  she  ceased,  he  arose,  and  crossing  the  room,  stood 
before  the  young  woman,  who  still  held  Grace  in  her 
$    arms. 

Reaching  out  his  hands,  and  smiling,  he  said,  in  a 
$    voice  of  tender  persuasion — 

"  Come,  Grace — come,  love — come." 

The  little  one  lifted  her  head  from  the  woman's 
breast,  bent  toward  the  carpenter,  and  smiled,  in  return, 
one  of  her  sweetest,  most  loving  smiles.  The  woman  in- 
stantly drew  the  child  back,  while,  a  shade  of  fear  went 
over  her  countenance. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  madam,"  said  the  carpenter,' in  a 
respectful  voice.  "  If  she  will  come,  let  her  come.  You 
may  take  her  -  again.  Grace,  darling !  Sweet  one  ! 
Cunie !" 

Again  the  babe  raised  herself  up,  and  leaned  toward 
the  carpenter.  Again  she  smiled  sweetly,  fluttered  her 
tiny  hands,  and  seemed  anxious  to  get  into  his  arms. 
He  reached  out  for  her;  but  just  as  she  seemed  ready  to 
spring  to  him,  her  eyes  wandered  up  to  the  loving  face, 
so  full  of  unutterable  tenderness,  that  bent  over  her; 
and  then  she  fell  back  upon  the  bosom  she  knew  to  be 
her  mother's. 

A  shadow  darkened  on  the  carpenter's  face. 

"  Come,  darling !"  he  repeated,  extending  his  hands. 

She  lifted  her  head  again,  stretched  out  her  arms,  and 
in  the  next  instant  was  tightly  clasped  to  the  carpenter's 
bosom. 


J 


134  THE  ANGEL  OP   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Heaven  bless  you,  sweet  one !  Bless  you !  bless 
you !  An  angel  of  love  you  have  been  to  us  all !  How 
can  we  give  you  up  ?  Oh  !  no,  no  !  It  must  not  be ! 
God  gave  you  to  us ;  and  shall  we  let  any  but  the  death- 
angel  take  you  away  ?" 

The  mother  had  started  to  her  feet,  and  was  now 
moving  by  the  side  of  Harding,  as  he  paced  about  the 
room,  her  face  full  of  alarm  and  anxiety. 

"  Oh,  sir !  give  me  back  my  babe  I"  she  cried,  in  a 
voice  of  deep  supplication.  "  Grace  !  Darling  !  Come 
to  your  mother !" 

Harding  paused,  and,  by  an  effort,  repressed  the 
strong  upheaving  of  emotion.  As  he  relaxed  the  tight 
clasp  of  his  arms,  the  little  one  raised  her  head,  and  now 
reached  out  her  hands  toward  her  mother. 

"  Go  back,  then,"  he  said,  kissing  her  tenderly.  "  Go 
back.  I  cannot  say  nay,  if  it  is  in  both  your  hearts." 

As  Grace  returned,  with  a  baby  murmur  of  joy,  to  her 
mother's  arms,  the  carpenter's  strength  seemed  to  leave 
him,  and  he  sunk  into  a  chair,  where  for  some  time  he 
remained,  with  his  head  drooped  upon  his  breast.  From 
this  state  he  was  aroused  by  hearing  the  elder  of  the  two 
women  say,  addressing  her  daughter — 

"  You  came  in  the  carriage  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  How  far  is  it  away  ?" 

"  About  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  on  the  road  to  Beecfl     > 
wood." 

"  It  is  growing  late.     We  must  leave  here." 

"  You  will  not  leave  to-night  ?"  said  Harding,  as  he    '/ 
wrose  and  came  forward. 

"  Oh  yes ;  we  must  go,"  was  answered. 

"To   that   I  cannot   consent" — the   carpenter   spoka    \ 
firmly — "  unless  vou  go  alone." 

«  Alone !" 

The  mpther  of  Grace  looked  frightened. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       135 


uYes — a.one.  Did  you  think,  for  an  instant,  that  I 
would  stand  passive  and  see  her  taken  away  by  strangers, 
no  mattei  what  their  claim  ?  If  so,  you  have  mistaken 
Jacob  Harding.  Who  are  you  ?  Where  do  you  live  ? 
These  are  questions  that  must  be  fully  answered." 

There  was  a  manly  dignity  about  the  carpenter  that 
compelled  respect,  and  a  firmness  of  manner  that  showed 
him  to  be  entirely  in  earnest. 

The  two  women  looked  at  each  other  with  troubled 
glances. 

"  You  shall  know  all  in  good  time,"  said  the  elder. 

"Now  is  the  good  time,"  was  answered.  "Believe 
me,  when  I  say,  that  I  love  that  babe  too  well,  to  trust 
her  even  with  her  mother,  when  all  the  past  is  con- 
sidered, unless  I  know  where  to  find  that  mother.  I 
must  hold  you  both  to  a  higher  responsibility  than  your 
own  consciences." 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?"  almost  sobbed  the  distressed 
young  woman.  "  Oh  that  I  were  once  more  at  home 
with  my  babe  !  Kind  sir" — and  she  turned  to  the  car- 
penter with  a  pleading  look — "  do  let  us  go.  I  have  the 
means  of  being  generous  to  you,  and  I  will  be  generous. 
Gratitude  for  your  kindness  to  my  child  has  already 
suggested  ample  benefits.  Oh,  sir  !  withdraw  your  opposi- 
tion. There  are  reasons  why  we  desire  to  remain  for 
the  present  unknown.  Say  that  we  may  leave,  and  I 
will  never  cease  to  ask  for  you  Heaven's  choicest 
blessings." 

"  It  cannot  be,"  said  the  carpenter,  with  unwavering 
firmness.  "  That  child  never  leaves  here  unless  I  know 
all  about  those  who  take  her  away.  Rely  upon  it, 
nothing  will  turn  me  from  this  purpose." 

The  two  women  now  communed  with  each  other, 
apart,  for  some  minutes.  The  elder  then  approached 
Harding,  and  said — 

"  My  name  is  Hartley ;  and  I  live  in  Overton." 


136  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


There  was  an  unsteadiness  of  voice  and  eye  as  she 
spoke,  that  did  not  escape  the  carpenter's  notice. 

"  It  will  not  do,"  replied  Harding,  shaking  his  head.        s 

"  What  will  do,  then  ?"  exclaimed  the  woman,  in  a    j> 
quick,  demanding  voice. 

Her  whole  manner  changed.     The  fretted  will,  so  used    I; 
j>     to  reaching  its  purposes  in  spite  of  all  hinderances,  could    , 
tamely  brook  this  opposition  no  longer. 

Five  times  did  Jaeob  Harding  pace  the  room  backward    £ 
5     and  forward  before  answering.     Then  pausing  before  the    > 
woman,  who  had  remained  standing,  he  said — 

"  One  thing  I  have  fully  decided."  < 

"What?" 

The  woman  spoke  eagerly.  \ 

"  That  Grace  does  not  leave  here  to-night."  .         J 

"  Oh  sir,  don't  say  that !"  cried  the  younger  of  the  two 
strangers.  Her  pale  face  blanched  whiter. 

"  I  have  said  it,  and  will  not  change,"  answered  the 
carpenter.  "  You  can  both  remain  if  you  will.  We  will 
give  you  the  best  accommodations  our  poor  abode  can 
ofier.  As  for  me,  I  want  time  to  consider  this  matter. 
It  is  far  too  weighty  to  receive  a  hurried  decision.  I 
must  have  a  night's  sleep  upon  it." 

"  Oh,  for  patience !"  exclaimed  the  elder  of  the 
women.  "  You  may  repent  this,  sir !  You  know  not 
whose  will  you  are  thwarting." 

"I  confess  my  ignorance,"  said  Harding,  with  a 
shade  of  irony  in  his  voice ;  "  and  therefore  it  is  that  I 
hesitate,  and  choose  to  act  with  circumspection." 

"  We  cannot  remain  here  to-night.     Impossible !" 

"  Very  well.  You  will  find  us  all  here  to-morrow,  or 
the  day  after." 

Seeing  that  Harding  was  not  to  be  moved,  the  two 
women  drew  together  in  a  distant  part  of  the  room,  and 
remained  in  whispered  conversation  for  a  long  time. 

"  My  daughter  cannot  be  induced  to  leave  her  child," 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       137 

Baid  the  mother,  as  she  left  Edith,  and  came  forward  to 
when;  Harding  was  now  seated  by  his  wife.  "  She  will, 
therefore,  remain,  at  least,  until  to-morrow.  Then,  I 
trust,  you  will  permit  her  to  depart  with  her  babe. 
Further  hinderance  on  your  part  will  be  cruelty.  Think 
of  what  she  has  already  suffered,  and  spare  her  further 
anguish.  As  for  me,  I  will  go  to-night." 

"  You.  are  welcome  to  .stay,  if  it  so  please  you,"  re- 
turned the  carpenter. 

"  My  daughter's  health  has  been  feeble  for  some 
time,"  said  the  woman,  "  and  she  is  now  quite  overcome 
by  fatigue  and  excitement.  If  you  will  let  her  retire 
early,  she  will  take  it  as  a  kindness." 

Mrs.  Harding  arose  at  this  time,  and  laying  the  now 
sleeping  Lotty  in  her  father's  arms,  passed  from  the 
room.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  and  said  the 
chamber  was  ready,  if  the  lady  wished  to  retire.  The 
mother  and  her  daughter  went  in  together,  and  shut  the 
door  behind  them.  Mrs.  Harding  intended  to  enter 
(t  the  room  also,  but  the  door  closed  so  quickly,  that  she 
was  left  without.  For  a  moment  or  two  she  stood  con- 
fused and  undecided.  Then  turning  to  her  husband, 
she  said — 

"  Jacob,  what  is  to  be  done  ?     How  can  we  give  her 

"  We  will  not,  unless  we  know  more  of  these  persons     ;• 
\    than  we  now  do,"  replied  Harding. 

"  It  is  her  mother,"  said  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  Yes ;  that  is  plain.     But  who  and  what  is  she  ?" 
j        "  If  we  only  knew." 

"  We  must  know."      Harding  spoke  firmly.     "  Not 
until  I  have  the  fullest  intelligence  in  regard  to  them, 
1    will  I  consent  to  let  thorn  have  the  child.     Hark  !  what      > 
is  that?" 

The  carpenter  listened. 

"What  do  you  hear?" 

I 

•-^-~---.V 


138  THE  ANGEL   OP  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


Mrs.  Harding  was  startled  by  her  husband's  manner. 

•*  I  thought  I  heard  a  noise." 

"  What  was  it  like  ?" 

"  I  don't  know." 

Both  listened  for  some  moments. 

"  Where  was  it  ?" 

"  I  can't  tell  whether  it  was  in  the  house  or  out  doers. 
It  was  nothing,  probably.  I'm  excited." 

Still  they  listened  in  a  kind  of  breathless  suspense. 

"  I  wonder  if  they  have  fastened  that  door :  they  are     *f 
very  still,"  said  the  carpenter. 

Mrs.  Harding  stepped  lightly  to  the  door,  and  tried 
the  lock. 

"  It  is  fastened,"  she  whispered  back. 

"  They  must  have  turned  the  bolt  very  silently,"  re- 
marked Harding.  "  Suppose  you  knock,  and  ask  if 
they  want  any  thing." 

Mrs.  Harding  tapped  gently.  There  was  no  answer 
She  tapped  again,  but  louder.  Still  all  remained  silent 
within.  She  now  rattled  the  lock,  and  called  to  the  in- 
mates. The  answer  was  fruitless :  no  answer  to  her 
summons  was  returned. 

"I  don't  like  this,"  said  Harding,  starting  up,  and 
advancing  to  the  door,  against  which  he  threw  his  body 
with  a  force  that  broke  the  fastenings  within.  As  the 
door  swung  open,  his  eyes  rested  upon  the  open  window. 
In  an  instant,  all  was  comprehended.  Flinging  the 
sleeping  child  he  held  in  his  arms  upon  the  untumbled 
bed,  he  sprung  through  the  open  window,  and  disap- 
peared in  the  darkness. 

"  A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here,  on  the  road  to  Beech- 
wood."  He  remembered  these  words,  and  ran  swiftly  in 
that  direction,  hoping  to  overtake  the  fugitives.  The 
sky  was  overclouded,  and  the  night  intensely  dark.  In 
vain  the  eye  sought  to  penetrate  the  thick  vail  of  sha- 
de tvs  For  more  than  half  a  mile,  Harding  pursued  his 


THE  ANGEL  OF  TUB  HOUSEHOLD.       139 


ir&y  toward  Beechwood,  and  then  stopped,  with  a  heart- 
sickening  consciousness  that  longer  search  in  that  direc- 
tion was  hopeless.  Returning  with  rapid  steps,  he  swept 
around  in  a  wide  circle,  vainly  seeking  for  the  two 
women  who  had  disappeared  so  noiselessly,  taking  with 
them  the  dear  angel  of  the  household.  But  all  was  of  no 
Avail  Under  cover  of  the  darkness,  they  had  effected 
their  escape.  After  an  hour  spent  in  fruitless  search, 
he  came  back,  looking  pale  and  distressed.  To  the  eager 
questionings  of  his  tearful  wife,  he  only  answered — 

"  Gone  !  gone  !  and  not  a  trace  of  them  left  behind  !" 
dropping  into  a  chair  as  he  spoke,  and  trembling  from 
exhaustion  of  body  and  mind. 

"Oh,  Jacob!  Jacob!"  It  was  all  the  heart-stricken 
wife  could  say,  as  she  leaned  over  him,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  Mary,"  said  the  carpenter,  after  he  had  grown 
calmer,  "  I  have  never  had  any  thing  to  hurt  me  like 
this.  It  seems  almost  as  if  a  hand  were  grasping  my 
heart,  and  striving  to  tear  it  from  my  breast.  Dear 
baby !  And  to  lose  her  thus  !  I  cannot  bear  it,  Mary  !" 

"If  we  only  knew  where  she  was;  if  we  could  go  to 
her  sometimes,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  If  she  had  died  and  passed  up  into  heaven,"  said  the 
carpenter.  "  But  to  be  stolen  from  us,  and  taken,  we 
know  not  where,  perhaps  to  be  abandoned  again,  and  to 
suffer,  who  can  tell,  what  cruel  treatment !  Oh !  the 
thought  drives  me  half  distracted." 

"  1  do  not  think,  Jacob,  that  her  mother  will  part 
with  her  again.  She  loves  her  child  too  deeply.  My 
heart  ached,  as  I  looked  at  her,  to  think  of  what  she 
mu^t  have  borne  since  she  tore  it  from  her  bosom,  and 
left  it  at  our  door.  I  wonder  that  she  was  not  bereft  of 
reason.  For  her  sake,  I  will  try  to  bear  the  pain  I  feel. 
Oh !  if  I  only  knew  that  all  would  be  well  with  the 
babe." 

"That  I  musfc  knew,  Mary,"  replied  the  carpenter, 

^w-J 


140  THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


with  regained  firmness.  "  The  woman  said  her  name 
was  Hartley,  and  that  they  lived  at  Overton.  This  may 
be  true  or  false  j  but  to  Overton  I  will  go  early  in  the 
morning.  If  the  statement  prove  false,  so  much  is 
settled,  and  I  can  turn  with  more  confidence  my  eyes  in 
another  direction.  Of  one  thing  I  am  certain — they  do 
not  live  very  far  from  Beechwood." 

As  best  they  could,  the  carpenter  and  his  wife  sought 
to  console  each  other,  and,  in  the  act,  drew  closer  to- 
gether in  heart,  and  felt  a  mutual  sympathy.  How  de- 
serted the  house  seemed  to  them !  and  their  chamber, 
when  they  retired  for  the  night,  felt  lonely  and  cheer- 
less. If  the  baby  had  died,  and,  a  little  while  before, 
been  carried  forth  from  that  room  to  its  mortal  resting- 
place,  the  feeling  of  sadness  and  desolation  that  op- 
pressed them  could  not  have  been  stronger.  Sleep  did 
not  visit  their  pillows  early.  They  were  kept  awake  by 
thoughts  of  the  sweet  babe  that  had  so  grown  into  their 
hearts,  that  it  seemed  a  part  of  their  life.  But,  at  last, 
their  heavy  eyelids  closed,  and  then  this  dream  came  to 
Mrs.  Harding : — 

She  was  sitting  in  her  own  chamber,  with  an  infant 
lying  close  against  her  bosom.  It  had  soft,  brown, 
silken  hair,  curling  in  glossy  circles  about  its  forehead 
and  temples,  and  eyes  down  into  whose  blue  depths  she 
gazed  until  it  seemed  that  heaven  was  opening  to  her 
vision.  It  was  not  Grace — not  the  angel  babe  whose 
coming  and  going  were  shrouded  in  mystery — but  a  new 
gift  to  her  mother's  heart.  Full  of  love  and  joy  she 
bent  over  the  lovely  innocent,  while  her  spirit  uplifted 
itself  in  thankfulness  for  a  boon  so  precious.  As  she  sat 
thus,  a  pale,  sweet-faced  woman  entered,  also  clasping 
an  infant  in  her  arms.  She  knew  them  both  at  a 
glance — the  mother  of  Grace,  with  her  newly-regained 
treasure  in  her  arms.  Coming  up  slowly  to  Mrs.  Hard- 
\  ing,  she  stood,  for  some  moments,  gazing  upon  her 


THE   ANGEL   Oi'   TilE    HOUSEI1OLD.  141 


with  a  tender  smile.  Then  her  lips  parted  with  the 
words — 

"  Our  household  angels  !" 

A  thrill  of  such  exquisite  pleasure  went  through  the 
eleeper's  mind,  that  she  awoke.  Lotty  was  in  her  arms, 
and  she  drew  her  to  her  heart  with  a  feeling  of  maternal 
tenderness  deeper  than  she  had  ever  known  for  her 
child. 

"  I'll  be  your  little  Grace,  mother." 

The  words  seemed  spoken  in  her  ears  again,  and  she 
raised  herself  up  to  see  if  Lotty  were  not  really  waking. 
But  no :  Lotty  was  in  the  world  of  dreams. 

"  Bless  you,  my  baby  I"  murmured  Mrs.  Harding,  as 
she  laid  her  lips  against  the  warm  cheek  of  the  sleeper. 
"  You  shall  be  my  little  Grace." 

"  Dear  mother  !  I  will  be  good  if  you  will  love  me  " 

She  was  dreaming. 

Gathering  her  little  one  closer  in  her  arms,  Mn». 
Harding  lifted  her  voice  to  heaven,  and  prayed  that  she 
might  be  to  her  children  a  true  mother.  And  her 
prayer,  rising  from  an  earnest,  yearning  heart,  did  not 
return  to  her  fruitless. 


142       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

'-  QUICK  I"  ejaculated  the  elder  of  the  two  wouen,  at 
she  closed  the  door  of  the  little  chamber  into  which  the 

carpenter's  wife  had  shown  them,  and  slipped  the  bolt  } 

silently.     Gliding  past  her  half-bewildered  daughter,  she  j 

raised  the  window,  which  opened  only  a  few  feet  from  ! 

the  ground,  and  springing  out  with  the  agility  of  a  girl,  \ 

was  ready  to  help  Edith  through  the  narrow  way  of  \ 

egress  they  had  chosen.  ^ 
"  Quick  !  quick  !     Step  lightly." 

And   the  mother  drew  her  arm  around  the  slender  |» 

form  of  Edith,  and  bore  her  onward  as  if  she  had  been  \ 

only  a  child.     Sweeping  around  the  house,  the  two  wo-  \ 

men  gained  the  road  that  passed  only  at  a  short  distance  \ 

from  the  door,  and  then  pressed  forward,  as  fast  as  the  j; 

ft     darkness  would  permit,  in  the  direction  of  Beechwood.  j 

\     They  were  only  a  short  distance  away  from  the  car 

?     penter's  -dwelling,  when  the  young   woman  said,  in  a  < 

>     voice  of  alarm — 

j         "Hark!     What  is  that?"  j 

Both  paused  to  listen,  and  instantly  became  aware,  by  '<' 

$     the  sound  of  swiftly  approaching   footsteps,  that  they  I 

!;      were  pursued. 

"  0  mother !    what  shall  we  do  ?"  said  Edith,  in  a  > 
frightened  voice 

Her  companion  answered   not,  but  passing  an   arm  > 

around  her  waist,  drew  her  off  from  the  road  to  a  clump  <j 

J     of  bushes  that  opportunely  offered  a  place  of  concealment.'  4 

Behind  this  they  crouched  just  in  time  to  hide  their  i 
figures,  which,  from  portions  of  white  in  their  garments, 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  attracted  the   eyes   of 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       143 


Harding,  whom  they  doubted  not  to  be  the  individual 
approaching  with  such  hasty  speed.  He  passed  within 
only  a  few  feet  of  them — so  near,  that  his  muttered 
words  reached  their  ears. 

"  Come/'  said  the  elder  of  the  women,  as  soon  ai 
Harding's  heavy  footsteps  sounded  faint  in  the  distance. 

"  Not  that  way,"  objected  her  daughter. 

"  Why  not  ?"  was  sharply  inquired. 

"  He  has  just  passed." 

"  Is  not  the  carriage  in  this  direction  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Concealed  in  the  woods  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  He  will  not  find  it,  but  we  must.  Come  !  In  thia 
itoup  darkness  lies  our  safety.  Here  —  give  me  the 
uiuld." 

•'  No— no."     . 

And  Edith  resisted  the  attempts  of  her  mother  to  get 
possession  of  Grace. 

'•  Why  don't  you  give  her  to  me  ?  Foolish  girl !  I  am 
stronger  than  you,"  said  the  woman. 

"  She  is  as  light  as  a  feather  in  my  arms,"  replied 
Edilfl,  who  still  kept  hold  of  the  babe.  "  You  lead  the 
way,  and  I  will  follow  as  fast  as  you  desire." 

Tho  woman,  with  a  slight  murmur  of  impatience,  gave 
up  tta  brief  contest,  and  moved  on  again  in  the  direction 
taken  by  the  carpenter,  her  daughter  following  close  in 
her  footsteps.  Stopping  every  little  while  to  listen,  and 
then  pressing  on,  the  two  fugitives  continued  their  way 
for  about  ten  minutes,  when  Edith  said — 

•;This  is  the  place,  mother.  I  told  Mark  to  wait  for 
rne  in  ibe  woods,  off  to  the  left." 

Leaving  the  road,  the  two  women  sought  for  the  car- 
nage, but,  to  their  dismay,  it  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

"  Are  you  certain  about  the  place,  Edith  ?" 

EditL  was  very  certain   in  the   beginning,  but   tl»« 


144  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD 


darkness  was  so  bewildering,   that  her  mind  began  to 
waver. 

"  I  think  it  was  here,  mother." 

"  0  Edith !  and  so  much  at  stake !"  exclaimed  her  $ 
companion,  rebukingly.  "When  will  you  learn  to  \ 
rightly  guard  the  future  ?" 

'<  The  darkness  is  so  deep,"  said  Edith. 

"  You  should  have  thought  of  that,  and  taken  a  closer 
observation.  "What  are  we  to  do  ?" 

"  Mark  !"  called  Edith. 

"  Hush !  Mad  girl !  Your  voice  may  reach  other  J 
ears  than  his." 

"  Listen  !"     Edith  spoke  in  a  quick,  eager  tone. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  It  is  the  carriage,  thank  God !" 

And   the   excited  young   creature   leaned   her    head 
igainst  her  mother,   and  sobbed  violently.     Her  voice    ! 
had  reached   the  coachman,  who  was  only  a  short  dis-    jj 
tance  from  where   they  were  standing,  and  his  horses    ; 
were  in  motion.     But  a  few  moments  elapsed  before  the 
two  women  were  in  the  carriage. 

"  Home,  Mark — home  !"  whispered  the  mother,  "  and 
as  swift  as  our  horses'  feet  will  take  us." 

"  It  is  very  dark,  ma'am,"  answered  the  coachman. 

"You  know  the  road,  Mark,"  was  the  brief  and  signi- 
ficant answer. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  carriage  crept  along  almost 
noiselessly,  until  the  road  was  fairly  gained;  then,  at  a 
word  from  Mark,  the  horses  sprung  away  at  a  speed  that 
«atisfied  even  the  impatient  riders. 

For  nearly  two  hours  this  speed  was  maintained,  and 
then  the  foaming  horses  were  turned  into  a  wooded  lane 
that  wound  up  to  a  fine  old  mansion,  around  which  clus- 
tered many  evidences  of  wealth,  taste,  and  aristocratic 
pride.  Into  this  the  two  women  passed,  and  here,  for 
the  present,  we  will  leave  them. 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       145 


1 


The  morning  that  broke  after  that  eventful  night, 
found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding  in  trouble,  grief,  and  great 
perplexity  of  mind.  A  tearful  vail  was  over  their  whole 
household.  Not  one  of  the  inmates  but  grieved  after 
dear  little  Grace,  with  a  sorrow  that  knew  no  words  of 
comfort — no  ray  of  consolation.  All  questioned,  but 
there  was  none  who  could  answer. 
"  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

That  was  the  doubtful  inquiry  of  the  carpenter  and  his 
;  wife,  asked  often  of  each  other,  and  answered  only  by 
f  troubled  looks. 

"  Shall  we  at  once  make  it  known  to  the  neighbour- 
j  hood?"  asked  Harding.  "This  it  is  necessary  for  us 
'  speedily  to  determine.  The  child  will  be  missed,  sooner 
•  or  later,  when  we  shall  have  to  account  satisfactorily  for 
its  absence." 

"  Suppose  you  see  Mr.  Long,  and  ask  his  advice," 
,  said  Mrs.  Harding.     "  He  is  a  good  man,  and  discreet." 
"  Well  suggested,  Mary,"  said  the  carpenter.     "  I  will 
\    see  him  without  a  moment's  delay." 

But  even  the  schoolmaster  failed  to  see  the  matter    ;> 
;    clearly  on  its  first   presentation.     To  bruit   the    whole     i 
\    thing  abroad,  might  prove  a  serious  error;  but,  in  what     ; 
\    way,  a  total  ignorance  of  the  parties  concerned  left  alto-     !• 
gether  in  doubt.     It  was  plain  that  they  had  acted  with     < 
a  desperation  which  only  the  gravest  considerations,  could     J 
justify.     The  crime  of  having  abandoned  an  infant  in-     ^ 
t    volved  the  deepest  disgrace,  and  it  was  no  cause  of  won- 
|    der  that  they  sought  to  escape  the  penalty.     On  the 
\    other  hand,  the  absence  of  the  babe  from  the  family  of    -;> 

!  Harding  would  not  fail  to  attract  attention,  and  the  J 
neighbours  would  have  a  clear  right  to  demand  an  ex-  < 
planation  of  the  fact. 

(        "  What  had  we  best  do,  Mr.  Long  ?" 
(        This  was  the  earnest  question  of  Harding,  at  the  con- 
',     'lusion  of  his  conference  with  th«  schoolmaster. 

,  13 


146       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Say  nothing  to  any  one  else,  at  least  for  to-day,' 
was  the  answer.     "  I  will  testify,  if  necessary,  to  the     > 
fact  that  you  came  to  me,  and  related  the  whole  of  the 
strange  circumstance,  and  that  I  advised  you  to  keep    ; 
silent  for  a  day  or  two,  while  you  made  earnest  search 
for  the  parties  who  carried  off  the  child.     My  word,  I     •; 
am  sure,  will  be  all  that  is  needed  to  screen  you  from 
suspicion  of  wrong." 

"  I  am  very  sure  of  that,  Mr.  Long,  and  will  do  as    \ 
you  suggest,"   replied  the  carpenter.     "And  now,  my 
first  search  must  be  made  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Over-     < 
ton,  although  I  have  little  hope  of  finding  them  there. 
I  saw  deception  in  the  woman's  unsteady  eyes,  when  she 
mentioned  this   as   her  place   of  residence.     One   step 
brings  us  to  the  point  from  which  the  next  can  be  taken. 
I  will  regard  this  as  the  first  step  in  a  search  that  must 
not  be  fruitless." 

"  And  it  will  not  be  fruitless,  I  trust,"  said  the  school- 
master, as  Harding  turned  from  him,  and  went  back 
home  to  advise  his  wife  of  the  conclusion  to  which  he 
had  arrived,  after  consulting  with  Mr.  Long. 

Mounted  on  a  good  horse,  the  carpenter  was  soon  on 
his  way  to  Overton,  a  small  town  some  two  miles  beyond     ' 
Beechwood.     A  widow  lady,  with  whom  he  had  soine    • 
acquaintance,  resided  there,  and  at  her  house  he  alighted 
on  reaching  the  village.     After  the  customary  greetings,     ^ 
and  brief  questions  about  family  matters,  Harding  said —    > 

"  Do  you  know  a  lady,  in  Overton,  by  the  name  of 
Hartley?" 

"  Oh  yes  !  very  well,"  was  the  answer. 

With  what  a  strong  throb  did  the  heart  of  the  car-    J! 
penter  bound  at  this  reply,  so  little  expected ! 

"  Is  she  an  elderly  lady  ?"  he  next  inquired. 

"  She  is  past  the  middle  age ;  yet  no  one  would  call     <! 
her  old." 

"  Where  does,  she  live  ?" 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


The  woman  took  him  to  the  door,  and  pointed  to  a  fine 
old  mansion,  almost  hidden  by  majestic  elms,  that  stood 
not  far  from  her  dwelling. 
"  Has  she  a  daughter  ?" 
"  Yes ;  an  only  daughter." 
"  Grown  up  ?" 
«  Yes." 

"The  person  I  wish  to  see,"  said  the  carpenter; 
"and  as  my  business  is  somewhat  urgent,  I  must  bid 
yau  good  morning." 

Turning  almost  abruptly  from  the  woman,  he  sprung 
into  his  saddle,  and  galloped  away  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Hartley's,  his  mind  already  strongly  excited  in  anti- 
J  cipation  of  an  interview,  the  termination  of  which  in- 
^  volved  so  much,  and  was  yet  so  full  of  uncertainty. 
•i  Passing  from  the  public  road  into  a  gravelled  lane,  lined 
I  on  each  side  by  tastefully  cut  cedars,  he  advanced  toward 
\  a  beautiful  dwelling,  around  which  was  every  thing  to  in- 
l  dicate  the  possession  of  a  cultivated  taste  by  the  owner, 
ij  and  wealth  for  its  gratification.  But  at  these  external 
;  beauties  he  scarcely  glanced.  Too  deeply  was  he  ab- 
•!  sorbed  by  thoughts  of  the  approaching  interview. 

Dismounting  and   fastening   his   horse,   Harding   ad 
.;    vanced  to  the  hall-door,  and  lifting  the  heavy  knocker, 
brought  it  down  with  a  strong  hand.     The  sound  rever- 
berated loudly  within.     In  a  few  moments,  a  servant 
answered  his  summons. 

"Is  Mrs.  Hartley  at  home?"  asked  the  carpenter. 
The  suspense  from  which  he  was  now  suffering  made  hii 
voice  falter. 

"  She  is,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
"Can  I  see  her?" 

"  Will  you  walk  in  ?"  said  the  servant,  politely. 
The  carpenter  entered,  and  was  shown  into  one  of  tha 
elegaatly  furnished  parlours. 
"  What  name  shall  I  say  ?" 


i 


148  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD 


Harding  was  about  to  give  a  wrong  name,  but  his 
quickened  moral  sense  instantly  objected,  and  he  said — 

"  No  matter.    Say  that  I  wish  particularly  to  see  her." 

The  servant  hesitated  for  a  few  moments,  and  then  It  ft 
the  apartment.  Soon  the  rustle  of  a  lady's  garments  was 
heard  on  the  stairs.  Harding  arose  to  his  feet,  involun- 
tarily, and  stood  almost  holding  his  breath.  A  tall,  dig- 
nified, middle-aged  woman,  with  a  mild  countenance, 
presented  herself.  It  was  not  her  of  whom  the  excited 
man  was  in  search.  The  lady  bowed,  as  she  entered, 
and  said — 

"  My  name  is  Mrs.  Hartley." 

'  Not  the  Mrs.  Hartley  I  wish  to  see,"  replied  the  car- 
penter, in  a  tone  that  betrayed  the  depth  of  his  disap- 
pointment. 

"  I  know  no  other  by  my  name,"  the  lady  answered.  \ 
"  You  seem  to  be  under  some  mistake,  sir.  Perhaps,  if  { 
you  explain  yourself,  I  may  be  able  to  set  you  right  ;> 
Will  you  not  be  seated  ?" 

As  Harding  resumed  his  chair,  he  said — 

"A  woman  was  at  my  house  last  night — it  is  the  i 
second  time  she  has  called  there — who  told  me  that  she  \ 
lived  in  Overton,  and  that  her  name  was  Mrs.  Hartley."  £ 

"  Ah !"  The  lady  was  surprised.  "  What  kind  of  a  '> 
looking  woman  was  she  ?" 

"In  person,  near  your  size,  and,  to  all  appearance, 
near  your  age." 

The  lady's  face  flushed. 

"  Near  my  size  and  age  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am ;  but,  in  countenance,  you  bear  no  re-  / 
semblance,"  said  tha  carpenter. 

"And  she  said  her  name  was  Hartley,  and  that  she  J! 
resided  at  Overton  ?" 

"She  did;  but  I  questioned,  in  my  own  mind,  her  t 
truthfulness  at  the  time.  Ah  !  how  cruelly  have  I  been  \ 
deceived !"  , 

\.-N--V>.  —  •„••*•« 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


'  Deceived  !     In  what  way,  sir  ?"  asked  the  lady. 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  the  carpenter,  "  if  I  decline  an  ex- 
planation :  tte  reasons  are  imperative." 

"  You  are  the  best  judge  of  that.  And  yet,  as  my 
name  has  been  used  in  so  strange  a  manner,  it  seema 
only  right  that  I  should  be  made  acquainted,  at  least  in 
some  degree,  with  the  occasion  of  such  an  unwarrantable 
liberty.  Can  you  describe  the  woman  to  me  ?" 

Harding  gave  as  accurate  a  description  as  possible  of 
the  person  of  whom  he  was  in  search. 

"  Did  you  observe  a  mole  on  her  right  cheek  ?"  asked 
the  lady. 

"  Oh  yes,  madam  !  I  remember  that  distinctly,"  said 
the  carpenter,  starting  to  his  feet.  "  Tell  me !  Do  you 
know  her  ?" 

"  And  she  said  her  name  was  Hartley  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  that  she  lived  at  Overton  ?" 

"  Her  words,  as  my  visit  here  attests." 
.     "  A  very  singular  statement,"  said  the  lady. 

"  Oh,  madam  !  tell  me  if  you  know  her  :  do  not  keep 
me  in  suspense,"  urged  the  carpenter,  growing  more 
excited. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  the  reason  of  such  singular  con- 
duct." The  lady  spoke  to  herself.  "  Grave  her  name  as 
Mrs.  Hartley  1  What  does  it  mean?  There  is  some 
mystery  here,"  she  added,  addressing  the  carpenter; 
"  and  as  my  name  has  become  connected  with  it,  I  have 
a  right  to  ask  for  explanation.  For  what  purpose  did 
this  woman  come  to  your  house  ?" 

"  From  the  description  I  have  given,  do  you  identify 
her?"  asked  Harding. 

"  I  do,  dearly." 

The  carpenter  struck  his  hands  together,  exclaiming — 

u  So  much  gained  !  so  much  gained  !  Oh,  madam  ' 
toll  me  where  T  can  find  her  !" 


150  THE  ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Not  unless  I  know  why  you  are  in  search  of  her.  If 
you  will  not  trust  me,  neither  will  I  trust  you/'  replied 
the  lady,  firmly. 

Deeply  perplexed  was  the  carpenter  again.  He  saT 
that  the  woman  was  right;  and  yet  he  was  as  much  in 
doubt  respecting  her,  as  she  was  respecting  him.  It  was 
plain  that  she  knew  the  persons  who  had  carried  off  the 
child ;  but  what  good  or  evil  might  flow  from  a  revela- 
tion of  the  strange  facts  connected  with  them,  she  was 
unable  to  divine. 

"  Does  she  live  in  Overton  ?"  he  asked,  hoping  to  gain 
some  admission. 

"I  shall  communicate  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Hartley, 
"  unless  I  know  the  ground  of  your  inquiries.  If,  as  I 
said  before,  you  will  not  trust  me,  I  will  not  trust  you." 

"  "We  never  know  how  far  it  is  safe  to  trust  an  entire 
stranger,"  remarked  Harding. 

"  Very  true ;  and  that  is  my  reason  for  not  giving  in- 
formation to  a  stranger,  of  whose  object  I  am  entirely 
ignorant." 

"  Will  you  answer  me  these  questions  ?"  The  carpenter 
spoke  in  an  anxious  tone.  "  Is  the  lady  in  good  social 
standing  ?  And  is  she  known  as  virtuous  and  honour- 
able ?" 

"  I  can  answer  you  freely.  She  is  in  good  standing, 
and  I  have  never  heard  any  thing  against  her  of  so  grave 
a  nature  as  this  that  you  now  allege — the  assumption  of 
my  name.  This,  sir,  is  a  most  serious  allegation.  The 
wherefore  must  involve  something  more  serious  still." 

"  That  it  certainly  does,"  said  the  carpenter.     "  And 
this  being  so,  it  is  but  just  toward  her  that  I  should 
Keep  my  own  counsel  until  I  see  her  face  to  face.     That 
she  desires  secrecy,  is  apparent  in  the  fact,  that  she  has 
£     misled  me  by  assuming  a  name  that  belongs  to  another 
Ah,  madam  1   if  you  would  only  give  me  the  informa- 
>     tion  I  seek  " 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       151 

The  lady  mused  for  some  time;    then,  shaking  her 
head,  she  answered — 
<        "I  cannot  meet  your  wishes." 

Harding  sighed  deeply.  Rising,  he  moved  toward  the 
door  of  the  apartment,  his  face  strongly  marked  by  dis- 
appointment. 

"  May  I  ask  your  address  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hartley. 

It  was  given  without  hesitation. 

"  Your  errand  here  this  morning  is  a  very  singular 
one,  Mr.  Harding,"  remarked  the  lady,  evidently  unwill- 
ing to  have  him  depart,  without  some  disclosure  of  facts 
about  which  her  curiosity  was  in  no  small  degree  excited. 
"  Is  it  not  possible  for  us  so  far  to  trust  each  other,  as  to 
impart  the  information  each  desires  ?" 

"Not  at  present,  I  fear,"  answered  the  carpenter. 
"  Too  many  grave  considerations  force  themselves  upon 
my  mind,  and  enjoin  circumspection.  But  of  one  thing 
I  can  assure  you :  I  shall  not  long  remain  in  this  sus- 
pense. Should  the  search  of  to-day  not  prove  successful, 
you  will  see  me  in  the  morning — perhaps  this  evening,  ,' 


when,  to  gain  the  information  I  desire,  I  will  disclose 


..       t    _  o  ^  7 

what  now  discretion  warns  me  to  conceal." 

Bowing  to  the  lady,  who  made  no  further  effort  to  de- 
!    tain  him,  Harding  withdrew,  and,  mounting  his  horse, 
\    rode  off  at  a  quick  pace.     It  was  not  his  purpose,  now,     ;' 
;    to   make   further   search   in   this   direction.      First,   he 

<  wished  to  consult  with  Mr.  Long,  and  get  his  advice  as     •! 
I    to  the  propriety  of  disclosing  to  Mrs.  Hartley  the  facts  of     , ' 
;    the  previous  evening,  in  order  to  get  the  information  so 

<  much  desired.     A  nd  so,  turning  his  horse's  head  home- 
rs    ward,  he  pressed  the  animal  to  his  utmost  speed. 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

IMMEDIATELY  on  his  return  from  Overton,  the  car. 
>  penter  went  to  see  Mr.  Long. 

"One  step  taken  in  the  right  direction,"  said  the 
schoolmaster,  after  Harding  had  finished  his  narration 
of  what  passed  between  him  and  Mrs.  Hartley. 

"  But  what  of  the  next  ?"  asked  Harding.  "  That  is 
the  question  I  am  unable  to  answer.  A  wrong  step  may 
involve  most  serious  consequences.  The  parties  in  this 
strange  and  disgraceful  business  evidently  occupy  a  high 
social  position,  and  are  exceedingly  anxious  to  remain 
unknown.  If  I  reveal  all  to  Mrs.  Hartley,  in  order  to 
gain  the  information  I  seek,  it  may  be  the  cause  of  an 
irreparable  injury.  The  mother  of  Grace  has,  it  is 
plain,  acted  under  an  influence  from  her  imperious 
mother  that  she  was  unable  to  resist;  and  the  latter, 
moved  by  family  pride,  or  some  other  strong  considera- 
tion, has  taken  an  extreme  step,  the  knowledge  of  which, 
if  it  get  on  the  wings  of  common  report,  must  ruin  her 
in  the  good  opinion  of  every  one." 

"It  is  but  just,"  remarked  the  schoolmaster,  "to 
weigh  every  thing  with  the  nicest  care,  where  so  much 
is  involved.  I  think  you  were  altogether  right  in  with- 
holding from  Mrs.  Hartley  the  information  she  asked, 
and  I  cannot  blame  her  for  being  equally  discreet." 

"  But  what  step  can  next  be  taken  ?  I  have  not  a 
single  clue  by  which  to  trace  out  the  fugitives.  They 
escaped  in  the  darkness,  and  left  no  sign  of  their  de- 
parture." 

"  Did  not  the  young  woman  say  something  about  her 
carriage  being  near  at  hand,  on  the  road  to  Beechwood  T' 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       153 


"  Yes.     She  said  it  was  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away." 

"It  might  be  worth  your  while,"  said  the  school- 
master,  "  to  examine  the  ground,  a  little  off  from  the 
road,  and  see  if  you  can  find  the  mark  of  wheels.  The 
carriage,  most  probably,  was  withdrawn  rrom  the  public 
way,  in  order  to  escape  observation." 

"  Of  what  use  will  it  be  ?"  said  the  carpenter. 

"  Possibly,  the  direction  taken  may  be  ascertained." 

Harding  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"  Very  small  indications  are  sufficient  often  to  lead  to 
important  results,"  remarked  the  schoolmaster.  "  When 
we  are  altogether  in  the  dark,  we  accept  the  feeblest  ray, 
and  hail  it  gladly,  as  the  harbinger  of  approaching  light. 
But  some  other  course  may  have  suggested  itself  to  your 
mind." 

Harding  shook  his  head,  saying — 

"  I  am,  to  use  your  own  words,  altogether  in  the  dark 
Not  a  single  beam  of  light  is  on  the  way  before  me." 

"  Then  do  as  I  suggest,  my  friend." 

"  I  very  seriously  doubt,"  said  the  carpenter,  "  the 
the  truth  of  what  they  said  about  the  carriage  being  in 
the  direction  of  Beechwood.  I  followed  them  quickly, 
but  saw  nothing  of  either  them  or  the  carriage,  although 
I  kept  on  for  at  least  half  a  mile." 

"  The  carriage  was,  of  course,  withdrawn  from  the 
road,  and  concealed  from  view.  I  do  not  wonder  at 
your  not  seeing  it.  The  women,  most  probably,  heard 
you  coming  after  them,  and  hid  behind  some  sheltering 
object,  until  you  passed.  The  distance  you  went  gave 
them  an  opportunity  to  gain  the  vehicle,  and  make  their 
escape.  As  you  did  not  meet  the  carriage  on  returning, 
the  inference  is  plain,  that  the  direction  taken  was  not 
toward  Beechwood.  Now,  if  you  can  only  find  where  it 
turned  off  from  the  road;  and  can  thence  follow  the 
wheel-marks  to  the  place  of  concealment,  you  may  bo 
aHe  to  trace  them  still  farther,  and  thus -determine,  with 


154       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


;    more  or  less  certainty,  the   course  taken.     It  will 
something  gained,  to  know  that  they  did  or  did  not  go 
toward  Beechwood." 

"  I  will  act  at  once  upon  your  suggestion,"  said  thfc 
carpenter.  "  No  time  is  to  be  lost." 

Just  about  the  place  which  had  been  indicated,  Hard- 
ing found  the  deep  impression  of  wheels  in  the  soft  turf, 
turning  off  abruptly  from  the  beaten  road.  Following 
these,  he  discovered  the  spot  where  a  carriage  had  been 
standing  for  some  time,  as  was  clear  from  the  hoof-marka 
on  the  ground.  It  was  behind  a  clump  of  trees.  Be- 
yond this,  he  could  follow  the  tracks,  until  they  were 
again  lost  in  the  road.  One  thing  he  was  able  to  deter- 
mine clearly :  the  carriage  neither  came  from  nor  re- 
turned toward  Beechwood.  Between  the  place  at  which 
it  had  been  stationed  and  the  little  settlement  where  the 
carpenter  lived,  a  road  leading  to  the  town  of  Clifton 
branched  off.  He  tried  to  follow  the  wheel-marks  in  the 
road,  in  order  to  be  sure  that  the  vehicle  actually  went 
toward  Clifton;  but  the  hard,  beaten  surface,  and  the 
mingling  of  other  wheel-tracks,  made  this  impossible. 

It  was  now  midday,  and  Harding  returned  home,  in- 
tending, immediately  after  dinner,  to  start  for  Clifton, 
and  devote  the  remainder  of  the  day  to  searches  in  that 
direction.  He  found  his  wife  waiting  him  in  troubled 
suspense.  A  few  words  sufficed  to  give  her  the  meager 
result  of  his  efforts  to  discover  their  visitors  of  the  pre- 
vious evening.  Her  sad  face  and  red  eyes  told  but  too 
plainly  how  she  had  spent  the  hours  since  his  departure. 
The  children  were  subdued  in  manner,  and  their  sober 
faces  showed  how  sincerely  they  were  grieving  for  the 
loss  of  their  sweet  little  playmate.  Lotty  had  kept  close 
beside  her  mother  during  all  the  morning ;  and  whenever 
the  latter  sat  down,  overcome  by  her  feelings,  to  weep, 
the  child  would  come  and  lean  against  her,  or  draw  her 
tiny  arms  about  her  neck  and  say —  ^ 

J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       155 


'•  If  they  don't  bring  her  back,  I  will  be  your  little 
Grace,  mother." 

How  the  words  went  thrilling  to  the  mother's  heart, 
going  deeper  and  deeper  every  time  they  were  repeated, 
until  at  last  she  could  not  help  clasping  the  little  one 
passionately  to  her  bosom. 

Harding,  after  eating  a  few  mouthfuls  of  the  dinner 
which  he  found  awaiting  his  return,  had  left  the  table, 
and  was  preparing  to  leave  the  house,  when  Miss  Gimp, 
the  dressmaker,  who  had  only  half  an  hour  before  got 
home  from  Beechwood,  came  in  with  a  look  of  import- 
ance on  her  thin  face.  In  that  particular  crisis,  she  was 
far  from  being  a  welcome  visitor ;  the  more  especially,  as 
it  was  inferred  by  them  from  her  manner,  that  she  had 
by  some  means  gained  intelligence  of  what  had  occurred. 
She  felt  the  reserve  with  which  they  treated  her,  and 
was  somewhat  piqued  thereat;  nevertheless,  she  could 
not  keep  back  from  them  all  that  was  in  her  mind,  and 
said,  soon  after  she  came  in,  in  order  to  introduce  the 
subject — 

"  How  is  that  dear  little  babe  ?"  glancing  around  the 
room.  "  Asleep,  I  suppose  ?" 

Was  this  a  ruse  to  bring  them  out?  Both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Harding  thought  so ;  and  therefore  made  no  reply. 

"  I  met  a  lady-  over  at  Beechwood,"  said  Miss  Gimp, 
"who  asked  about  you  and  that  babe  with  a  good  deal 
of  interest." 

"  Indeed !" 

Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harding's  indifference  was  gone. 

"  Who  was  she  ?" 

Miss  Gimp  looked  mysterious 

"I  don't  feel  at  liberty  to  mention  her  name,"  she 
tnswered,  with  affected  gravity. 

"  Was  she  an  elderly  lady  ?"  inquired  the  carpenter. 

"  She  was  ne'ther  very  old  nor  very  young,"  said 
Miss  Gimp. 


156       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


"Though  somewhat  past  middle  age,"  reuarked  the 
carpenter,  who  saw  that  it  was  necessary  to  excite  a 
little  the  dressmaker's  curiosity,  by  appearing  to  have 
some  knowledge  of  the  person  to  whom  she  referred. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  looking  at  the  carpenter 
rather  warily. 

"  With  dark,  penetrating  eyes,  and  a  peculiarly  digni- 
fied, almost  commanding  manner." 

"  I  found  her  pleasant  and  affable  enough,"  said  Miss    ; 
Gimp.  > 

"  She  can  be  so  when  it  suits  her  purpose." 
"  Ah !    you  know  her,  then  ?"  remarked  the  dress- 
maker, thrown  off  her  guard. 
"  I  have  met  her,  I  presume." 
"  She  did  not  intimate  this." 
Miss  Gimp  looked  a  little  puzzled. 

"  It  was  not  necessary,  I  presume.     Did  you  meet  her    j 
/    in  her  own  house  ?" 

"  Me  ?     No,  indeed.     I  haven't  been  to  Clifton." 
"  Ah  !     True  enough.     You  were  at  Beechwood  1'' 

11  Yes.     At  Mrs.  Barclay's.     Mrs.  Beaufort" 

The  dressmaker  stopped  suddenly ;  for  she  saw  by  the 
eager  manner  with  which  the  carpenter  bent  toward  her, 
',;     that  he  was  merely  leading  her  on  to  tell  what  she  knew 
*    about  the  lady  to  whom  she  had  referred. 

"  Mrs.  Beaufort   of  Clifton,    the   widow   of   General 
^     Beaufort  ?"  said  Harding,  pressing  on  to  the  dressmaker 
so  closely,  that  she  could  only  answer  in  the  affirmative. 
"  Yes ;  it  was  Mrs.  Beaufort,"  she  replied.     "  She  is 
I;     a  sister  of  Mrs.  Barclay,  and  was  making  a  short  visit  at 
£     Beechwood  while  I  was  there." 
"  Did  she  leave  yesterday  ?" 

The  carpenter  asked  the  question  in  so  indifferent  a 
£  tone,  that  Miss  Gimp  was  altogether  deceived  as  to  the 
<  amount  of  interest  he  felt. 

"Yes      She  went  away  some  time  in  the  afieinoon, 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE    HOUSEHOLD.  157     } 


I  believe.  Her  going  was  thought  rather  sudden  bj  tho 
family.  In  fact,  I  heard  Mrs.  Barclay  say  to  ner 
daughter — the  words  were  not  meant  for  my  ears — tnat 
she  couldn't  conceive  what  motive  Mrs.  Beaufort  had 
/or  leaving  so  abruptly,  and  at  so  late  an  hour  in  th» 
day." 

"  You  will  excuse  me,  Miss  Gimp,"  said  the  car- 
penter, partly  turning  away,  and  taking  up  his  hat  from 
A  chair. 

"Men  are  always  excusable,"  returned  Miss  Gimp 
"  Business  has  the  first  claim.  So  make  no  apologies."  s 

«  Mary !" 

Harding  looked  at  his  wife,  and  she  arose  and  followed    / 
him  to  the  door. 

"  I  am  going  over  to  Clifton,"  said  he,   "  and  will    !> 
come  back  as  early  as  possible.     In  the  mean  time,  be  on 
your  guard  with  Miss  Gimp,  and  do  not,  on  any  account, 
kt  her  know  what  happened  last  night." 

"  Never  fear,  Jacob ;  she  will  learn  nothing  from  me," 
returned  Mrs.  Harding.  "  But  do  you  think  that  woman 
was  Mrs.  Beaufort  of  Clifton  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"  Don't  be  too  certain,  Jacob.  The  disappointment, 
should  the  supposition  prove  untrue,  will  only  be  the 
greater." 

"  There  is  not  a  shadow  of  doubt  on  my  mind,  Mary 
— not  a  shadow.  Good-by  !  I  will  be  back  as  early  as 
possible." 

And  the  carpenter  hurried  away. 

"  You  know,  then,  all  about  this  Mrs.  Beaufort  ?" 
said  Miss  Gimp,  in  the  most  insinuating  way,  as  Mrs. 
Harding  oarne  back  into  the  room. 

"  The  lady  about  whom  you  were  speaking  to  my  hus- 
Dand  just  now?" 

The  utter  indifference  with  which  Mrs.  Harding  said 
this,  surprised  in  nc  small  degree  the  dressmaker. 

14 


Ib8  THE  ANGEL  OP  THE   HOtSEHOLD. 

"  Yes.     Mrs.  Beaufort,  who  resides  at  Clifton." 

Mrs.  Harding  shook  her  head.     "  On  the  conti  i  y,  I 
know  nothing  about  her." 

"  Nothing  ?     Well,  that's  strange  !     I'm   sure   your 
husband  does,  if  you  don't." 

Miss   Gimp  was   puzzled,  disappointed,  and  a  little 
fretted. 

"That  may  all  be,"  answered  Mrs.  Harding.     "He 
sees  a  great  many  people  who  never  come  in  my  way:" 

"But,  really,  now,  Mrs.  Harding,  just  in  confidence" 
—Miss  Gimp  leaned  toward  the  carpenter's  wift ,  and— 
put  on  her  most  insinuating  look — "  don't  you  know 
something  about  Mrs.  Beaufort  ?    I'm  sure  you  do     She    ! 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  you."  \ 

"  Had  she  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed ;    and   about   the   baby   in   particular. 
Where  is  it  ?"  and  Miss  Gimp's  eyes  looked  around,    • 
searchingly. 

'  What  about  the  baby  ?"  said  Mrs.  Harding. 

"  And  you  don't  know  her  at  all  ?" 

Mrs.  Harding  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  my  opinion,  then,  that  she  knows  a  great  deal  I 
more  about  that  baby  than  you  do." 

Almost  impossible  did  Mrs.  Harding  find  it  to  repre&s    ;• 
the  strong  desire  she  felt  to  question  Miss  Gimp  closely 
and  to  gain  all  she  knew  at  the  price  of  entire  confi- 
dence ;  but  her  better  judgment  gave  her  self-control. 

"  That  may  be,"  she  answered  j  "  for  we  know  nothing  > 
of  its  history.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  I  hope  she  may  ', 
have  as  clear  a  conscience  about  the  child  as  we  have." 

"  Clear  a  conscience  !     How  ?" 

And  Miss  Gimp's  eyes  went  searching  about  the  room     £ 
again,  and  even  tried  to  penetrate  the  adjoining  chamber, 
through  a  small  opening  in  the  door. 

"  We  have  done  our  duty  by  the  babe." 

Miss  Gimp  was  puzzled. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       159 


/ 


"  How  is  the  sweet  little  cherub  ?"  she  asked. 

"  Well,"  Was  the  brief  answer. 

"  Asleep,  I  suppose  ?" 

"When  did  you  leave  Beechwood?"  asked  Mrg 
Harding,  not  appearing  to  notice  the  dressmaker*! 
question. 

"  This  morning." 

"  How  long  were  you  there  ?" 

"  Several  days." 

"At  Mrs  Barclay's,  you  said,  I  believe  ?' 

"Yes.  Mhe  sent  her  carriage  for  me,  and  took  me 
over." 

"  And  returned  you  in  the  same  way  T' 

"  Of  course.  She's  very  much  of  a  lady,  only  so  cold 
and  reserved.  Mrs.  Beaufort,  her  husband's  sister,  is  a 
very  different  kind  of  woman." 

"  In  what  respect  ?" 

"  0!«  !  she's  so  pleasant  and  talkative." 

"  What  kind  of  a  looking  person  is  she?"  asked  Mrs 
Harding. 

"  Tall,  and  very  dignified.  I  never  saw  such  a  pene- 
trating pair  of  black  eyes  in  my  life.  They  seem  to  look 
right  through  you  sometimes.  She  takes  a  great  deal  of 
interest  in  you,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  Does  she,  indeed  ?     I  wonder  why  !" 

How  hard  was  it  for  the  carpenter's  wife  to  maintain 
her  exterior  indifference ! 

"No,  you  don't  wonder,"  said  Miss  Gimp,  whose  close 
observation  detected  the  hidden  excitement  the  other  was 
so  anxious  to  conceal.  "  You  know  that  you  are  dying, 
this  minute,  to  hear  all  I  can  tell  about  Mrs.  Beaufort." 

"  If  you  really  think  so,"  remarked  Mrs.  Harding, 
forcing  a  smile,  "  pray  have  compassion  on  me,  and  re- 
lieve my  great  suspense." 

The  dressmaker  was  at  fault  again. 

"  Oh !"  she  replied,  with  ill-concealed  vexation,  "  if 


i.<0  THE  ANGEL   OP  THE   HOLSEHOLD. 


you  are  so  indifferent  about  the  matter,  I  shall  not 
trouble  myself  to  enlighten  you.  I  thought  you  would 
naturally  feel  an  interest  in  learning  something  about  a 
person  who  evidently  knows  a  good  deal  more  than  you 
do  about  little  Grace,  and  who,  it  is  plain,  has  her  ejes 
pretty  closely  fixed  on  you." 

Saying  this,  Miss  Gimp  arose,  and  made  a  movement 
toward  the  door.  She  was  very  confident  that  this  act 
would  break  down,  at  once,  the  assumed  indifference  of 
Mrs.  Harding.  But  she  erred.  The  latter  was  too 
clearly  aware  of  how  much  was  at  stake  to  suffer  herself 
to  be  thrown  from  her  guard.  All  the  information  of 
any  value  possessed  by  Miss  Gimp  had  been  communi- 
cated. She  saw  this,  as  her  mind  grew  calm  and  clear, 
and  she  was  pleased  that  the  prying  gossip  was  about  to 
depart.  It  was  in  vain  that  the  dressmaker  lingered, 
and  tried  to  strike  some  new  chord  of  interest.  Nothing 
vibrated  to  her  touch ;  and  she  withdrew,  utterly  disap- 
pointed in  the  object  of  her  visit,  and  in  a  very  bad  hu- 
mour with  both  the  carpenter  and  his  wife,  whom  she 
failed  not  to  abuse,  in  round  terms,  during  three  neigh- 
bourly visits  paid  by  her  ere  reaching  her  own  dwelling. 


L, 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       161 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IN  a  large  chamber,  the  costly  furniture  of  which  was 
in  the  fashion  of  an  earlier  day,  sat  a  pale  but  beautiful 
young  woman,  gazing  fondly  upon  the  lovely  face  of  a 
.;    sleeping  child.     She  had  no  eye,  no  ear,  no  thought  for 
!    any  thing  but  the  babe ;  for,  as  she  sat  thus,  an  elderly 
|    woman   entered,  and  moved  across  the  room,  without 
;    attracting  observation,  until  she  stood  close  beside  her. 

"  Edith !" 

The   young   woman   started,   and   her   face    slightly     j; 
j;    flushed. 

"  I  did  not  hear  you  come  in,  mother,"  she  said. 

"  You  can  neither  hear  nor  see  any  thing,  now,  but 
that  child." 

The  mother  spoke  with  some  harshness  of  manner. 

Edith  raised  her  eyes — they  were  not  tearful,  but 
calm  and  resolute — and  fixing  them  on  the  face  of  her 
mother,  she  said,  speaking  slowly,  yet  firmly — 

"  Have  I  not  said,  mother,  that  this  babe  is  dearer  to 
me  than  life  ?  Believe  me,  they  were  no  idle  words, 
uttered  under  excitement.  For  her  sweet  sake,  I  am 
prepared  to  give  up  every  thing — to  endure  every  thing. 
Let  us,  then,  contend  no  longer." 

"  Think   of  the   consequences,   Edith !     Cannot  you     ;• 
think  of  these  ?     Remember  that  Colonel  D'Arcy  will  bo 
here  next  week." 

'•Well?" 

"  And  that  he  comes  to  claim  your  hand." 

"  Claim  my  hand  ?" 

"  It  is  promised,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort. 

"By  whom?" 


162  THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOJJ). 


"  By  yourself.  He  has  your  written  acceptance  of 
his  marriage  offer." 

"  My  written  acceptance  ?" 

"  Yes.     But  why  need  you  be  reminded  of  this  ?" 

Edith  raised  one  hand,  and  clasping  it  tightly  against 
her  forehead,  sat  for  some  moments  with  a  bewildered 
look. 

"  My  written  acceptance  of  Colonel  D'Arcy's  hand  I 
Why  do  you  say  that,  mother  ?" 

"  Because  it  is  the  truth.  You  wrote  the  letter  of  ac- 
ceptance yourself." 

"I  did!     When?" 

Edith  looked  more  surprised  than  ever. 

"  Scarcely  two  months  have  passed,"  was  the  firm 
answer. 

"  Ah !"  A  gleam  of  light  shot  across  the  young 
woman's  face.  "  That,  too,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  "  is 
becoming  clear.  By  what  dark  spirit  was  I  possessed  ? 
Mother !  I  have  been  on  the  very  brink  of  insanity. 
The  extorted  pledges  then  made  I  now  repudiate,  as  I 
have  already  repudiated  the  cruel  act  of  abandoning  my 
precious  babe.  Had  I  been  in  my  right  mind,  I  dare 
not  now  pray  for  forgiveness.  The  act  of  accepting 
Colonel  D'Arcy  is  yours,  mother,  not  mine.  Your 
thought — your  purpose — guided  my  hand  when  I  wrote 
the  letter,  as  it  guided  and  controlled  my  actions  on  that 
day,  of  all  days  the  darkest  in  the  calendar  of  my  un- 
happy life.  But  I  have  returned  into  my  own  proper 
self.  I  am  clothed  and  in  my  right  mind  again ;  and, 
Heaven  helping  me,  from  this  day  forth  I  yield  to  no  in- 
fluence but  that  of  my  own  sense  of  right  and  duty  !  I 
can  work  and  suffer,  mother.  I  can  bend  to  any  hard  ne- 
cessity that  may  come ;  but  false  to  my  woman's  heart  I 
will  not  be  !  The  widow's  tears  are  not  yet  dry  on  my 
cheeks,  and  shall  I  turn  my  heart  from  all  its  pure  love  ? 
You  need  not  scowl  at  me,  mother — I  did  love  him 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       163   > 


with  a  full  heart,  tenderly.  He  was  my  husband,  my 
excellent,  true,  noble-minded  husband,  poor  and  in 
humble  station  though  he  was;  and  the  duty  of  public 
acknowledgment  that  I  owe  to  his  memory,  to  myself, 
and  to  his  child,  I  am  resolved  to  make,  and  that  right 
epeedily.  My  first  great  error  was  the  concealment  of 
cur  marriage  from  the  world;  the  second  was  suffering 
him  to  go  away  alone.  Oh  that  I  could  have  been  with 
him  in  his  last  extremity !  My  hand  should  have  been 
the  one  that  smoothed  his  pillow — my  voice  the  last  that 
sounded  in  his  ears.  Ah,  mother ! — hard,  proud,  exact- 
ing mother !  With  what  memories  have  you  cursed  your 
child!" 

Gradually  had  voice  and  manner  deepened,  until  both 
displayed  an  almost  fierce  energy,  before  which  Mrs. 
Beaufort — for  she  it  was — felt  herself  cowering.  Hitherto 
her  imperious  will  had  ruled  her  daughter ;  but  now  her 
power  over  her  was  at  an  end,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  so. 
The  darling  scheme,  to  compass  which  she  had  trampled 
the  most  sacred  obligations  under  foot — making  her  suf- 
fering child  a  participator,  even  at  the  risk  of  dethroning 
her  reason — had  come  to  naught;  and  in  its  hopeless 
failure,  other  ruin  was  involved.  Gone  for  ever — she 
saw,  in  this  second  strong  encounter  with  Edith,  that  it 
was  so — gone  for  ever  was  all  power  to  bend  that  young 
spirit  to  her  will.  But,  what  next  ?  Could  she  turn 
from  her  child  in  proud  anger,  and  go  forward  on  her 
life-path  alone  ?  She  asked  herself  the  question ;  and  the 
very  thought  caused  a  quick  gasping  for  breath,  as  if  she 
were  about  to  suffocate.  A  little  while  she  remained 
standing  near  Edith;  then,  without  replying,  she  went 
slowly  from  the  room. 

An  hour  afterward  she  returned,  entering  the  chamber 
of  her  daughter  as  noiselessly  as  before.  A  low,  sweet, 
cooing  voice  stole  into  her  ears  as  she  passed  through  the 
door,  and  thrilled  her  whole  being  with  a  strange  emo- 


lt>4  THE   ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


tion — a  mingling  of  exquisite  pleasure  and  pain.     It  w»a, 
the  baby's  voice.     Little  Grace  was  lying  on  the  bed, 
'/     and  over  her  bent  Edith. 

"  Darling !     Sweet  one  !     Darling  I" 
Thus  her  mother  spoke  to  her,  and  at  each  tenderly 
uttered  word,  she  answered  with  a  loving  response. 
"  My  sweet  baby  I" 

Arid  a  shower  of  kisses  followed  the  words. 
The  babe  still  answered,  with  its  sweet,  low  murmur, 
every   word  and  every  act  of  endearment.      She   lay,     \ 
partly  elevated  on  a  pillow,  and  in  such  a  position  that     J 
Mrs.  Beaufort  could  see  her  face,  while  she  remained  un- 
\     observed  by  her  daughter.     The  hour  passed  alone  had 
been   one  of  strong  self-conflict — ending  with  self-con- 
viction of  wrong.     The  proud,  unscrupulous  woman  of 
the  world  chafed  for  a  time  against  the  iron  bars  of  ne-     < 
cessity  with  which  she  found  herself  enclosed,  and  then    ; 
gave  up  the  vain  struggle. 

"  Hard,  proud,  exacting  mother  !   With  what  memories     £ 
]     have  you  cursed  your  child  !"    How  the  words  continued     ^ 

to  ring  in  her  ears,  until  chords  were  thrilled  which  had 
s     given  forth  no  sound  for  years.     Calmness  succeeded  to     •; 
;!     powerful  emotion ;  and  with  this  subsiding  of  the  storm, 
$     came  touches  of- gentler  feeling. 

"  My  poor  child  !"  she  sighed  to  herself,  as  some  vivid 
realizations  of  what  Edith  had  suffered  startle*1  her  into 
!•     a  new  consciousness. 

This  was  Mrs.  Beaufort's  state  of  mind  when  she  en- 
tered Edith's  chamber.     It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
£     the  voice  pf  Grace  had  awakened  echoes  in  her  heart 
<;     None  but  she  knew  the  struggle  that- it  cost  to  part  with 
the  babe,   when  cruel  pride  and  worldly  interests   de- 
manded its  abandonment.    Angry  as  she  had  been  at  her 
daughter's  secret  marriage  with  a  young  man  in  humble 
life,  when  the  fact  was  made  known  to  her,  and  almost 
driven  to  madness  when  the  babe  came  to  mar  all  the 


THE  ANQEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       165 


well-schemed  future — still,  in  its  lovely  innocence,  that 
babe  had  glided  into  her  heart,  and  made  for  itself  a 
place  there  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  keep  it  out  and 
to  cast  it  out.  Witness  her  two  visits  at  the  carpenter's, 
in  venturing  which  so  much  was  endangered. 

In  full  view  was  the  babe's  face,  as  she  entered  the 
room  of  Edith.     What  a  heavenly  beauty  radiated  there- 
\     from  !     What  a  winning  sweetness  was  in  her  murmured 
£    replies,  as  she  answered  to  the  voice  of  her  mother  ! 
"  Edith  !"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort. 

Edith  started,  as  before,  and  a  shadow  fell  on  her 
<;  countenance,  as  she  turned  toward  her  parent. 

"Edith,  my  daughter!"     There  was  a  tremulousness 

in  the  tones  of  Mrs.  Beaufort,  that  betrayed  her  softened 

feelings.     A  few  moments  Edith  looked  into   her  face, 

|    doubtingly ;  then  she  saw  that  her  eyes  were  dimmed  by 

!•    gathering  tears. 

"  Oh,  my  mother !  my  mother  !"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 

>     voice  of  passionate  entreaty ;  "  will  you  not  take  this 

precious  darling  to  your  heart,  as  once  you  took  me  ?" 

And  she  lifted  Grace  quickly  from  the  bed,  and  held  her 

\    toward  her  mother.     "  Her  hands  are  outstretched,  mo- 

'/    ther !    She  asks  for  a  place  in  your  heart.     Will  you  not 

j;    let  her  in  ?     A  Heaven-sent  blessing  to  us  both  she  will 

\    prove — an  angel  in  our  home  to  smile  away  the  darkness 

j;     that  has  overshadowed  it  so  long      Dear  mother  !  gather 

us  both  in  your  arms  !     Mother  !  mother !" 

The  last  brief  struggle  was  over.  Around  them  both 
<  the  arms  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  were  flung,  and,  with  a  strocg 
|  compression,  she  drew  them  to  her  heart. 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !"  she  sobbed,  as  her  tears  fell 
I     over  the  face  of  Edith  and  the  babe.    "  Even  so  let  it  be. 
There  is  room  enough  for  both.     I  will  take  her  iu 
Nay — she  is  there  already." 


r 


-3 

168  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

MRS.  BEAUFORT,  the  widow  of  General  Bf*aufort,  a 
man  of  wealth,  who  had  attained  considerable  political 
distinction  during  his  lifetime,  was  left  with  an  only 
daughter,  Edith,  for  whom  she  had  large  ambition.  A 
very  selfish  and  self-willed  woman,  she  yet  loved  this 
child  with  an  absorbing  intensity  rarely  witnessed. 
Edith  was  a  part  of  herself,  and  she  loved  herself  in  its 
reproduction  in  her  child,  with  a  largely  increased 
\  vitality. 

I  But  very  unlike  her  mother  was  Edith.  In  her,  the 
milder,  better  traits  of  her  father  predominated,  and  this 
gave  room  for  the  acquirement,  by  such  a  woman  as 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  of  almost  unbounded  control  over  her 
'•  From  the  beginning,  the  most  implicit  obedience  had 
<;  been  exacted;  and  as  it  was  ever  an  easy  sacrifice  for 
^  Edith  to  give  up  her  own  will,  the  requirement  of  her 
'/  mother  came  to  be  the  law  of  her  actions. 

While  Edith  remained  a  child,  the  current  of  these 
s  two  lives — that  of  the  mother  and  daughter — flowed  on 
i>  together  at  the  same  velocity,  and  in  channels  bending 
<  ever  in  the  same  direction.  But  there  came  a  time  when 
the  surface  of  that  gently  gliding  child-life  began  break- 
ing into  ripples — when  the  heart  claimed  its  freedom  tc 
iOve  what  its  own  pure  instincts  regarded  as  lovely. 

From  the  earliest  time,  had  the  thoughts  of  Mrs. 
Beaufort  reached  forward  to  the  period  when  Edith's 
hand  would  be  claimed  in  marriage ;  but  not  once  had 
qualities  of  mind  and  heart  elevated  themselves,  in  the 
prospective  husband,  above  family,  wealth,  and  high 
position  in  the  world 


THE   ANGEL   OP  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


As  Edith  grew  up,  and  the  pure  young  girl  expanded 
into  lovely  womanhood,  her  personal  attractions,  as  well 
as  her  station  in  life,  drew  suitors  around  her;  but  all 
failed  to  win  their  way  into  her  affections.  Among  these 
was  a  Colonel  D'Arcy,  a  man  of  wealth  and  station,  who 
in  every  thing  satisfied  the  ambition  of  Mrs.  Beaufort. 
Well-educated,  accomplished,  possessing  a  fine  person 
and  a  large  share  of  self-esteem,  Colonel  D'Arcy,  on  ap- 
proaching the  lovely  heiress,  might  have  exclaimed  with 
Caesar,  at  the  battle  of  Ziecla,  "  Veni,  vidi,  vici !" 

But  he  came,  he  saw,  and  did  not  conquer.  The  heart 
of  Edith  was  too  true  in  its  perceptions  to  make  an  error 
here.  Utterly  repulsive  to  her  was  this  confident  suitor. 
The  sphere  of  his  quality  surrounded  him  like  the  subtle 
odour  of  a  noxious  plant,  and  her  delicate  moral  sense 
perceived  this  quality  the  instant  he  approached.  That 
he  repelled  instead  of  attracting  her,  D'Arcy  saw  at  their 
earliest  interview.  This  piqued  his  pride,  and,  in  the 
first  excitement  occasioned  by  Edith's  cool  reception,  he 
vowed  that  he  would  "  win  her  and  wear  her."  It  did 
not  take  long  to  satisfy  the  gallant  colonel  that  the 
£  Btorming  of  a  fort  was  an  easier  task  than  the  storming 
\  of  a  heart.  That  of  Miss  Beaufort  he  found  impregnable 
<;  under  all  his  known  modes  of  warfare. 

That  the  mother  favoured  his  suit,  Colonel  D'Arcy 

•  iaw  from  the  beginning ;  but  a  proud  confidence  in  his 

•  own  powers  would  not  let  him  stoop  to  solicit  her  as  an 
ally.     Yet  he  had  to  do  so  in  the  end.     Against  their 
joint  assault,  aware,  as  he  had  become,  of  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort's influence  over  her  daughter,  he  was  certain  there 
would  only  be  a  short  resistance.     Here,  again,  he  erred. 
Edith  unhesitatingly  declared  to  her   mother   that  no 

!  power  on  earth  would  induce  her  to  accept  the  hand  of 
£  Colonel  D'Arcy,  for  whom  she  h?d  the  most  intense  re- 
f  ^ugnance.  Never  before  had  her  daughter  so  boldly  set 
I  at  naught  her  will.  The  fiery  indignation  of  Mrs.  Beau- 


A*-w^_-V_/ 

}  168       THE  ANQEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

£  fort  burned  fiercely  for  a  time,  and  in  her  blind  passion 
she  did  not  hesitate  to  utter  the  maddest  threats  of  con- 
sequences, if  there  was  not  an  instant  compliance  with 
her  wishes.  5 

"  I  can  imagine  nothing  so  dreadful  as  to  become  the 
wife  of  that  man,"  Edith  would  answer — shuddering  as 
she  answered — every  intemperate  appeal.     And  little  be-    i- 
yond  this  did  she  say ;  for  all  her  words,  she  knew,  must 
fall  idly  on  her  mother's  ears. 

Meantime,  at  the  house  of  a  friend  in  the  neighbour-    > 
hood,  she  met  with  a  young  man,  named  Percival,  who    •; 
was  paying  a  short  visit  there.     He  resided  in  the  city 
of  B — - — ,  distant  a  hundred  miles,  where  he  was  pur-    > 
suing  the  study  of'law.    He  was  poor,  with  few  interested    ! 
friends,  and  had  the  world  all  before  him.     At  their  first    j 
meeting,  Henry  Percival  did  not  know  even  the  name, 
much  less  the  social  position  of  Miss  Beaufort ;  and  she 
was  as  ignorant  of  all  that  appertained  to   him.     But    ; 
from  the  eyes  of  each  looked  forth  upon  the  other  a  con-    ; 
genial  spirit,  that  was  seen  and  recognised. 

The  progressive  steps  of  their  intimacy  we  will  not 
pause  to  relate.  On  the  part  of  Percival,  there  was  no 
design,  in  the  beginning,  to  win  the  heart  of  Edith  ;  and 
when  he  saw  that  it  was  his,  and  reflected  on  the  wide 
disparity  of  their  possessions,  the  discovery  saddened  his 
spirit,  for  he  saw,  darkening  over  both  their  futures,  a 
stormy  cloud. 

On  returning  home  to  pursue  his  studies,  he  arranged 
with  Edith  for  a  regular  correspondence,  which  was  con- 
ducted for  nearly  a  year,  without  becoming  known  to 
Mrs.  Beaufort.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  he  came  back 
to  Clifton,  when  he  an<j  Edith  were  secretly  married. 
The  precipitation  of  this  act  was  caused  by  Mrs.  B.eau- 
fort's  acceptance  of  Colonel  D'Arcy  in  the  name  of  her 
daughter,  and  the  actual  appointment  of  a  day,  some  two 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       169 


or  three  months  distant,  when  the  nuptial  ceremonies 
were  to  take  place. 

In  order  to  free  Edith  from  the  martyrdom  in  which 
her  life  was  passed,  and  to  get  for  ever  rid  of  Colonel 
D'Arcy,  the  young  couple  resolved  upon  this  step.  It 
was  taken,  and  notice  thereof  at  once  communicated  to 
Mrs.  Beaufort,  coupled  with  the  intelligence  that  the 
bridegroom  and  bride  would  present  themselves  before 
her  after  the  lapse  of  a  week,  and  claim  forgiveness  and 
a  blessing. 

We  will  not  attempt  to  describe  the  state  of  mind  into 
which  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  thrown  by  this  undreamed-of 
intelligence.  Her  very  life's  love  was  assailed  and 
threatened  with  extinction.  No  eye  but  that  of  Heaven 
saw  her,  as,  in  the  secrecy  of  her  own  chamber,  she  en- 
dured the  wild  conflict  of  passion  that  succeeded;  but 
marks  of  the  fearful  storm  were  too  plainly  visible  on  her 
altered  face,  when  she  came  forth  in  her  stately  com- 
posure. 

The  week  passed,  and  then  Edith  and  her  young  hus- 
band presented  themselves.     The  first  she  received  with 
icy  coldness ;  the  latter  she  overwhelmed  with  bitter  de-     \ 
nunciation  and  the  most  withering  scorn. 

"  Come,  Henry,"  said  the  young  wife,  laying  her  hand  ^ 
upon  his  arm,  and  drawing  him  away — "  I  will  not  hear  / 
you  addivc.sed  in  such  language,  even  by  my  mother,  s 
You  are  my  husband,  and  the  wide  world  is  ours." 

There    was   a   simple    dignity,    blended   with   unrnis-     / 
takable  purpose  in  this,  that  confounded  as  well  as  sur- 
prised Mrs.  Beaufort.     Edith  had  already  turned  away,     < 
and   was   moving   with   her   husband  toward    the  door 
through  which  they  had  just  entered.  '< 

"Edith!     Girl!" 

The  voice  of  the  mother  arose  almost  into  a  cry  of 
anguish. 

Edith  paused,  and  turning,  looked  back.     Her  face 


f 

170  THE   ANGEL   OP   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


was  colourless,  and  all   its  lines   rigid   from  excessive    ; 
emotion;  but  it  was  resolute. 

"I  have  cast  my  lot  in  life,  and  with  deliberation,    < 
mother,"   she   said.     "  You   left   me  no    other   course. 
Death  I  could  have  met  calmly,  but  not  the  destiny  you     } 
assigned  me.     This  man  is  my  husband,  chosen  from  all    '< 
other  men,  and  with  him  I  shall  go  through  the  world. 
If  you  receive  not  him,  you  cannot  receive  me." 

"  Mad  girl !  mad  girl  I"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beaufort,  as  •; 
she  staggered  back  a  few  steps,  and  sunk  upon  a  chair.  * 
"  How  have  you  flung  to  the  stormy  winds  every  dearest  jj 
hope  of  my  life  !" 

Edith  left  her  husband's  side,  and  going  quickly  to  \ 
her  mother,  laid  her  hand  gently  upon  her  hot  forehead,  ; 
on  which  the  veins  were  swollen  into  chords.  The  touch  < 
of  that  soft  hand  thrilled  magnetically  along  every  nerve.  ] 
For  some  minutes  Mrs.  Beaufort  sat  entirely  passive. 

Ah  !  she  could  not  live  without  her  child ;  and  never    ^ 
did  she  feel  that  truth  more  deeply  or  more  painfully.    \ 
Indignant  pride  would  have  flung  her  off  and  disowned    ! 
her  for  ever;  but  intense  love  clung  to  her  even  as  the 
drowning  cling  to  a  straw. 

"  0  Edith  !  my  child  !  what  have  you  done  ?" 

As  these  words  came  almost  sobbing  from  her  lips,    <[ 
Mrs.  Beaufort  arose  and  went  from  the  room  with  un- 
steady steps. 

When,  after  the  lapse  of  two  hours,  she  rejoined  Edith 
and  her  husband,  it  was  to  meet  them  with  a  kindness    \ 
of  manner  that  took  both  by  surprise.     Below  this  as-    ] 
sumed  exterior,  Percival,  who  had  a  quick,  penetrating    \ 
mind,  saw  concealed  a  sinister  purpose ;  but  Edith,  too    ! 
happy  at  so  broad  a  concession,  believed  that  her  mother    \ 
had  resolved  to  make  the  best  of  circumstances,  which  no 
act  of  hers  could  change.     The  first  inquiries  made  by 
Mrs.  Beaufort  were  in  reference  to  the  publicity  which 
}     had  been  giwn  to  the  marriage.     On  learning  that  every 


THE   ANGEL   OP   THE    HOUSEHOLD  171 


thing  had  been  conducted  with  the  strictest  secrecy,  and 
f,hat  the  fact  was  only  known  to  one  or  two  pledged 
friends,  who  were  to  be  relied  upon,  she  expressed  much 
satisfaction,  and  at  once  proposed  further  measures  of 
concealment  for  the  present. 

To  these  proposals,  Percival  and  Edith,  after  some 
persuasion,  were  induced  to  accede ;  and  at  an  early  day 

^    the  young  man  returned  to  B alone,  to  enter  upon 

;    the  practice  of  his  profession,  he  having  been  just  ad- 

<!    mitted  to  the  bar.  ]j 

Six  or  seven  months  elapsed,  during  which  time  Per-    '{ 

cival  had  twice  visited  Clifton,  arriving,  by  arrangement,    < 

late  in  the  evening,  and  not  showing  himself  to  any    > 

£    visitor  during  the  brief  period  he  remained.     To  both     j 

I;    himself  and  Edith,  this  secrecy  was  growing  daily  more     j 

!    and  more  oppressive  and  repugnant,   and  it  was  only 

maintained   through    the    powerful   influence    of    Mrs. 

Beaufort. 

About  this  time,  a  gentleman  from  New  Orleans 
i  called  upon  Percival,  and  made  him  liberal  offers  if  he  £ 
;  would  go  to  the  South.  This  person's  name  was  Maris.  \ 
He  had  been  in  correspondence  for  some  two  years  with  \ 
Percival' s  legal  preceptor,  and  at  his  instance  made  the 
proposition  to  which  we  have  referred.  The  opening 
promised  to  be  so  largely  advantageous,  that  the  young 
man  felt  bound  to  accept  of  it.  Previously  to  doing  so, 
he  repaired  to  Clifton  to  consult  with  his  wife  and 
mother-in-law.  Edilh  made  some  feeble  objections; 
but  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  so  decided  in  her  approval,  that 
ehe  acquiesced,  and  immediate  preparations  for  departure 
were  made. 

For  three  months  letters  came  regularly  from  Per- 
cival, whose  residence  was  New  Orleans.  He  spoke  with 
animation  of  his  opening  prospects,  and  shadowed  forth, 
in  ardent  fancy,  a  future  of  brilliant  success  in  his  pro- 
fession Then  came  a  longer  silence  than  usual  j  then  a 


172  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD 

letter  from  Mr.  Maris,  announcing  Percival's  dangerous 
illness  with  a  Southern  fever.  Two  weeks  more — weeka 
of  agony  to  the  young  wife — and  the  terrible  news  of  his 
death  came,  with  mournful  details  of  the  last  extremity. 
In  the  midst  of  Edith's  wild  anguish,  a  babe  was  born — 
the  sweet  little  Grace,  in  whom  the  reader  feels  so  tender 
an  interest.  Around  this  event,  Mrs.  Beaufort  threw 
every  possible  vail  of  concealment,  even  going  so  far  as 
to  bribe  to  secrecy,  by  most  liberal  inducements,  every 
member- of  her  household  that  became  necessarily  aware 
of  the  circumstances. 

Weak  in  body  and  mind — prostrate,  in  fact,  under  the 
heavy  blow  that  fell  so  suddenly  upon  her — Edith  be- 
came passive  in  the  hands  of  her  mother,  and  obeyed  her, 
for  a  time,  with  the  unquestioning  docility  of  a  little 
child.  Even  her  mind,  in  its  feeble  state,  became  im 
pressed  with  the  idea  of  secrecy,  so  steadily  enjoined  by 
Mrs.  Beaufort ;  and,  in  presence  of  the  few  visitors  whom 
ehe  could  not  refuse  to  see,  she  assumed  a  false  exterior, 
and  most  sedulously  concealed  every  thing  that  could 
awake  even  a  remote  suspicion  that  she  had  been  a  wife, 
and  was  now  a  mother. 

Meantime,  under  all  the  disadvantages  of  its  position, 
the  babe  was  steadily  winning  its  way  into  a  heart  that, 
from  the  beginning,  shut  the  door  against  it,  with  a  reso- 
lute and  cruel  purpose.  Mrs.  Beaufort  could  never  come 
where  it  was,  without  feeling  a  desire  to  take  it  in  her 
arms,  and  hug  it  to  her  bosom;  and  the  more  she  re- 
sisted this  desire,  the  stronger  it  became,  until  the  con- 
flict occasioned  kept  her  in  a  constant  state  of  excite- 
ment. 

A  few  weeks  after  the  news  of  Percival's  death  was 
received,  Colonel  D'Arcy  visited  Clifton.  On  being  an- 
nounced, Edith  positively  refused  to  see  him ;  and  her 
feeble  state  warranted,  even  in  her  mother's  view,  the 
decision  He  remained  only  a  short  time :  but,  on 


L 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       173 

ieavmg,  placed  in  the  hands  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  an  epistle 
for  her  daughter,  couched  in  the  tenderest  language,  and 
renewing  previous  offers  of  his  hand. 

Percival  out  of  the  way,  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  now  more 
than  ever  resolved  to  compass  this  darling  scheme  of  her 
heart — the  marriage  of  her  daughter  with  Colonel 
D'Arcy.  The  first  step  in  its  sure  accomplishment  was 
to  get  the  child  out  of  the  way.  But  how  was  this  to  be 
done  ?  It  was  a  fine,  healthy  child,  more  than  usually 
forward  for  its  age,  and  in  no  way  likely  to  die  speedily, 
j>  unless — unless?  Did  thoughts  of  murder  stir  in  the 
£  mind  of  that  proud,  selfish,  cruel  woman  ?  Such  thoughts 
\  were  suggested,  and  even  pondered  !  But  other  thoughts 
;>  — of  disgrace  and  punishment — came  quickly  to  drive 
;  them  out.  The  abandonment  of  Grace  was  next  deter- 
mined upon.  To  effect  this,  she  first  induced  Edith — 
who,  from  grief,  sickness,  and  incessant  persecution,  had 
entirely  lost  her  mental  equipoise — to  write  a  letter  of 
acceptance  to  Colonel  D'Arcy.  Passive  hopelessness  left 
her  a  mere  instrument  in  her  mother's  hands.  For  her 
acts  she  was  scarcely  responsible.  The  letter  of  accept- 
ance passed  speedily  from  her,  and  went  on  its  mission, 
beyond  recall.  This  fact  of  acceptance  was  a  great  power 
gained  over  Edith — a  power  that  Mrs.  Beaufort,  seeing 
her  vantage  ground,  used  with  a  heartless  rigour,  that 
finally  led  to  the  cruel  act  of  desertion  already  known  to 
the  reader. 

For  two  weeks  subsequent  to  Edith's  return  home, 
after  placing  the  basket  containing  her  babe  at  the  door 
of  Mr.  Harding — she  had  resisted  all  persuasion,  en- 
treaty, and  command  of  her  mother  to  leave  that  task  for 
another — she  retained  but  little  consciousness  of  sur- 
rounding circumstances.  The  trial  proved  too  great; 
and  her  over-tried  spirit  sought  protection  and  repose  in 
partial  oblivion.  Slowly  recovering,  her  first  sane  thoughts 
were  of  her  babe ;  and  though  she  said  nothing  of  her 
15* 


174  I'HB   ANOliL   OF  T1IE    HOUSEHOLD. 


purpose  to  her  mother,  she  was  fully  resolved,  the  mo 
ment  strength  came  for  the  effort,  to  regain  possession 
thereof,  publicly  acknowledging  it  and  her  marriage, 
and,  if  that  sad  necessity  were  imposed,  go  forth  from 
her  mother's  house  into  the  world  alone. 

The  meeting  at  Harding' s  was  quite  as  great  a  surprise 
to  Edith  as  to  her  mother;  but  it  was  all  the  better,  as 
giving  occasion  for  the  unqualified  declaration  of  her 
future  purpose — a  declaration  that,  as  has  been  seen,  she 
was  prepared  to  sustain. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

"  IP  the  heart  is  not  satisfied,  mother,  life  at  best  is  a 
heavy  burden." 

Mrs.  Beaufort  and  her  daughter  were  sitting  together,  't 
on  the  day  after  their  recovery  of  Grace,  and  talking  \ 
calmly  of  the  future.  Hopeless  of  attaining  her  ambi-  \ 
tious  ends,  the  former  had  given  up  the  struggle,  so  long  ;• 
continued.  Even  though  but  a  few  hours  had  passed 
since  the  unequal  strife  with  Edith,  she  was  becoming 
clearly  conscious  that  her  course  of  action  toward  her 
child  had  been  far  from  just  or  humane,  and  that  her 
position  gave  her  no  right  to  exercise  so  tyrannical  an 

Hifluence.  No  longer  compelled,  by  her  own  selfish  pur- 
oses,  to  cherish  a  feeling  of  antipathy  toward  Grace, 
be  found  her  heart  beginning  to  flow  forth  toward  the 
)vely  infant.  Such  was  the  nameless  attraction  pos- 
3ssed  by  the  babe,  that  even  with  all  her  powerful 


reasons  for  wishing  to  annihilate  her,  if  that  were  pos- 

VMAAM 


j 


THE   A.NGEL  OJF  THE   HOI  SKHOLD. 


eible,  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  not  been  able  to  resist  the  sphere 
of  her  love-inspiring  innocence.  Now,  when  no  barrier 
to  affection  reared  itself,  her  heart  turned  toward  the  in- 
fant, and  opened  itself  with  eagerness  to  take  her  in. 
Qiick  to  perceive  the  real  change  in  her  mother's  feel- 
ings toward  Grace,  Edith  placed  the  little  one  in  her 
arms,  and  with  a  thrill  of  exquisite  delight  saw  it  drawn 
impulsively  to  her  bosom.  In  that  moment,  the  work 
of  reconciliation  was  accomplished.  Against  the  winning 
attractions  of  Grace,  Mrs.  Beaufort  had  striven  from  the 
beginning,  but  never  with  perfect  success.  It  was  all  in 
vain,  that,  to  satisfy  pride  and  ambition,  she  had  cast  her 
off;  even  in  the  separation,  her  heart  had  mirrored  the 
babe's  sweet  image;  turned  ever  and  anon  toward  her; 
and  yearned  for  her  restoration.  And  now,  when  she 
came  back  to  brighten,  with  her  seraphic  presence,  the 
darkness  of  their  unhappy  home,  and  no  strong  motive  for 
thrusting  her  out  remained,  her  heart  leaped  toward  her, 

',    panting  with  its  long-endured   thirst   to  love,  and  re- 

;    ceiving  her  therein  with  joy  and  gladness. 

<  "0  mother !"  added  Edith,  as  they  sat  together,  each 
striving  for,  and  feeling  the  way  toward  a  truer  recon- 
ciliation, "  how  vainly  do  we  seek  for  happiness,  if  we 
seek  it  beyond  the  range  of  our  own  true  wants !  We 
must  look  inward — not  outward.  We  must  ask  of  our 
hearts — not  of  the  world — how,  and  where,  and  with 
what  companionship  we  are  to  spend  our  life's  probation. 
As  for  me,  I  desire  nothing  beyond  my  own  home,  and 
an  entire  devotion  of  all  i  have  and  all  1  am  to  my 
child.  If  that  will  satisfy  me,  why  should  any  one  seek 
my  unhappiness  by  dragging  me  into  uncongenial  spheres, 
or  '.ursing  me  with  associations  against  which  my  whole 
nature  revolts  with  loathing  ?  As  for  Colonel  D' Arcy — 
I  speak  of  him  now,  because  you  are  better  prepared  to 
understand  me  than  erer  before — his  friendship  even 
oppresses  me  But,  when  he  seeks  a  nearer  association— 


176       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


presumes  to  ask  of  me  the  love  given  but  once,  and 
never  to  be  given  again — I  ain  almost  suffocated  with 
jj  disgust.  Yield  him  my  hand,  mother !  Never  while  I 
have  strength  to  bind  it  to  my  side.  I  would  brave  a 
thousand  deaths  in  preference.  He  is  a  bad  man — I 
know  it  by  the  quick  repugnance  that  fills  my  heart 
whenever  he  comes  near  me.  Did  he  possess  a  single 
germ  of  true  manliness,  he  would  not  pursue  me  after  all 
that  has  passed." 

A  servant  interrupted  them  by  announcing  that  a 
strange  man  had  called,  and  asked  to  see  Mrs.  Btaufort. 

"  What  is  his  name  ?"  inquired  the  lady. 

"  He  wishes  to  see  you  a  moment ;  but  would  not  give  $ 
bis  name." 

"  What  kind  of  a  looking  man  ?" 

The  servant  described  him. 

"  Say  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  few  moments."  As>  !; 
the  servant  withdrew,  the  whole  manner  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  ^ 
changed.  "  It  is  Harding,"  said  she.  ;• 

Edith  started,  and  turned  pale,  at  the  same  time  lift-  !; 
ing  Grace  from  her  mother's  arms. 

"What  is  to  be  done?  How  did  he  find  his  way 
here  ?" 

"  We  must  see  him,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort,  after  a  few 
moments  of  hurried  reflection. 

"  Both  of  us  ?" 

"  Yes,  Edith,  both,  of  us.  And  he  must  see  Grace. 
Nothing  is  left  now,  but  to  conciliate,  and  bring  him,  a 
jertain  degree,  into  our  confidence.  He  and  his  wife 
proved  faithful  to  the  trust  reposed  in  them.  They 
loved  our  little  Grace  truly,  and  cared  for  her  tenderly ; 
and  they  must  have  their  reward.  There  was  a  tine 
manliness  about  his  conduct  last  night,  that  raised  him 
high  in  my  estimation.  I  think  he  can  be  trusted." 

"But  he  frightened  me  so,  mother:  le  spoke  8<J 
harshly,  and  seemed  so  cruel." 


THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       177 


"  WAS  he  not  right,  Edith,  in  seeking  to  prevent  our 
taking  away  the  babe,  strangers  as  we  were,  and  re- 
fusing, as  we  did,  to  give  any  satisfaction  as  to  our  per- 
sonality? He  was  right,  and  I  approved  his  manly 
firmness  at  the  time." 

"  I  wish  you  would  meet  him  alone,  mother." 

"  I  do  not  think  that  will  be  best,"  replied  Mrs.  Beau- 
fort. "  We  must  not  let  him  see  that  we  are  afraid  of 
him.*  Our  relations  are  very  different  from  what  they 
were  last  evening ;  and  if  we  show  a  consciousness  of  our 
real  position,  he  will  not  be  slow  to  perceive  his  own." 

The  room  into  which  the  carpenter  had  been  shown 
was  a  large  parlour,  richly  furnished,  its  six  windows 
draped  with  heavy  curtains  of  red  satin  damask.  Around 
the  walls  were  hung  many  pictures,  among  which  his 
eyes  soon  recognised  his  two  visitors  of  the  previous 
night,  Mrs.  Beaufort  and  her  daughter.  The  portrait  of 
Edith  had  been  taken  some  five  years  previous,  and, 
while  it  still  bore  to  her  a  striking  resemblance,  had  all  ] 
the  innocent  sweetness  of  gentle  girlhood.  As  he  gazed, 
with  a  kind  of  fascination,  upon  this  pictured  counte-  <! 
nanco,  it  seemed  to  change  and  grow  life-like,  and  he  \ 
almost  started  to  his  feet  as  he  saw  the  eyes  of  dear  little  !> 
Grace  looking  down,  with  a  loving  expression,  from  the  < 
canvas.  He  was  scarcely  freed  from  the  illusion,  when  ;- 
he  became  aware  that  footsteps  drew  near  the  door. 
Turning,  he  met  the  calm,  dignified  face  of  Mrs.  Beau-  ] 
fort,  and  the  pale,  timid,  half-frightened  countenance  of  '• 
her  daughter,  who  held  the  babe  he  had  lost  closely  } 
drawn  to  her  bosom. 

"  Mr.  Harding !"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort,  speaking  with 
entire  self-possession,  and  giving  her  hand  to  the  car-  \ 
penter  as  she  advanced  to  meet  him.  "  So  you  have 
found  us,  my  good  friend,"  she  added ;  "  and  it  is,  per- 
haps, as  well.  We  had  powerful  reasons  for  desiring  to 
remain  unknown.  Under  the  circumstances,  this  was 

J 


178  THE   ANGEL   OP   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


hardly  possible.     You,  at  least,  were  not  to  be  baffled  in 
your  search,  as  this  early  visit  testifies.     Sit  down,  Mr. 
>     Harding.     We  had  better  understand  each  other  fully  " 
Harding  was  somewhat  bewildered  by  the  calmness  of 
his  reception.     From  the  dignified  countenance  of  Mrs. 
i;     Beaufort,  his  eyes  turned  to  the  sweet  babe  that  lay  so    > 
closely  drawn  against  the  breast  of  its  mother :  as  they 
did  so,  a  softened  expression  passed  over  his  rough  face 
"  Grace !  Grace  !"   he  said,  tenderly,  and  advancing 
reached  out  his  hands. 

Edith  moved  off  a  pace  or  two ;  but  the  little  one,  the 
I;     moment  she  heard  the  well-known  voice,  started  up,  and, 
with  a  glad  murmur,  fluttered  her  rosy  fingers,  and  leaned 

!  eagerly  forward,  while  her  whole  face  was  lit  up  with 
a  joyful  recognition.  Edith  drew  her  back,  while  an  ex- 
pression of  anxiety  and  alarm  dimmed  her  countenance. 

"  Let  her  come  to  me,  ma'am,"  said  the  carpenter,  in 
a  respectful  voice — it  trembled  with  feeling. 

Edith  glanced  toward  the  door,  fearfully.     Harding 
understood  the  meaning  of  this. 

"  You  need  not  mistrust  me,  ma'am."     He  stepped  to 

the  door,  and  closed  it.     As  he  returned  to  where  she 

stood,   he   continued — "  Jacob  Harding  has   gone   thus 

far  in  life  without  a  treacherous  action,  and  he  will  not 

violate  his  honour  now.     Let  her  come  to  me ;  oh !  let 

!;     her  come  !     Let  me  feel  the  dear  one  again  in  my  arms, 

•;     where  she  has  lain  so  many,  manytimes." 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  seeing  that  her  daughter  still  hesitated, 

^     took  Grace  from  her  arms,  and  placed  her  in  those  of  the 

£     carpenter.     As  Harding  received  the  precious  burden, 

he   clasped  her   passionately,  and  spoke  to  her  in  the 

most  endearing  tones.     The  little  one  answered  him  with 

her  sweet  love-language,  and  even  drew  her  tiny  arms 

about  his  necfc.     How  wildly  he  kissed  her  !     Dim  were 

|     his  eye>s  as  he  restored  her  to  her  mother  j  and  he  spoke 

not,  tor  exnotion  was  too  strong. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       179 


"I  am  foolish,"  he  said,  as  he  recovered  himself. 
u  It  is  not  manly,  I  know ;  but  that  child  has,  from  the 
beginning,  softened  my  heart,  until  it  has  become  weak 
as  a  woman's.  How  you  could  ever  have  parted  with 
her" — this  thought  restored  his  self-possession,  and  he 
spoke  with  something  of  a  rebuking  sternness — "  passes 
my  comprehension." 

"  And  it  passes  mine !  it  passes  mine  I"  murmured 
Edith,  speaking  to  herself,  as  she  bent  lower  over  the 
babe,  which  the  carpenter  had  restored  to  her  arms. 

"As  for  the  past,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort — she  spoke 
with  a  calmness  and  self-possession  that  had  its  effect  on 
J  Harding — "  that  must  sleep,  my  friend,  with  its  errors 
'  and  sufferings,  as  far  as  memory  will  let  it  sleep.  All  I 
$  will  say  of  it  to  you  is,  that  I  had  ambitious  views  in  re- 
«!  gard  to  my  daughter,  which  she  frustrated  by  a  secret 
|  marriage.  The  death  of  her  young  husband,  a  few 
^  months  afterward,  and  while  I  was  yet  able  to  prevent 
s  the  fact  from  becoming  known,  revived  all  my  ambitious 
ij  hopes.  The  birth  of  this  child  I  was  able  to  conceal ; 
^  and,  moreover,  succeeded  in  so  overshadowing  the  mind 
s  of  its  mother,  as  to  induce  her,  in  a  moment  of  partial 
,s  derangement,  to  abandon  it  at  your  door — not  yours  by 
\  choice,  but  by  accident.  The  rest  you  know.  The  mo- 
<;  ther's  heart  was  too  strong  in  my  child.  Her  babe  is 
;  again  on  her  bosom,  and  there  it  must  remain.  Her 
grateful  thanks  are  yours  for  the  tenderness  with  which 
you  have  cared  for  the  babe;  and  she  will  not  let  her 
gratitude,  believe  me,  rest  in  her  mind  a  fruitless  senti- 
ment. For  the  present,  all  we  ask  of  you  is  discretion. 
Let  tha  knowledge  of  our  personality  in  connection  with 
this  matter  remain  wholly  with  you  and  your  wife.  Of 
course  the  babe  must  now  be  acknowledged,  and  we  shall 
proceed,  without  delay,  to  give  public,  indisputable  evi- 
dence of  my  daughter's  marriage.  As  to  the  abandon- 
ment jf  the  "hild,  with  the  circumstances  _  attending  it, 


180  THE  ANGEL   OJF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 

if  all  becomes  known  in  each  minute  particular,  we  shall 
suffer  strong  opprobrium.  Very  naturally,  I  wish  to 
escape  this  myself,  and  especially  to  save  my  daughter 
from  the  charge  of  kaving  abandoned  to  strangers,  of 
whom  she  knew  nothing,  her  own  tender  infant.  Can 
we  trust  in  your  prudence  ?  Will  you  not  bind  your- 
selves to  us — you  and  your  wife — by  a  new  debt  of 
gratitude  ?" 

It  was  some  time  before  Harding  made  any  answer. 
His  mind  was  bewildered  by  what  Mrs.  Beaufort  said. 
Plain  enough  was  it,  that  the  angel  of  their  household 
was  to  return  to  them  no  more ;  and  the  shadow  already 
on  his  heart  fell  colder  and  darker. 

"  All  does  not  lie  with  us,"  he  remarked,  scarcely  re- 
flecting on  what  he  said. 

"Why  not  on  you?" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  spoke  anxiously. 

11  The  dressmaker  you  saw  at  Mrs.  Barclay's  yesterday    j 
directed  my  suspicions  toward  you." 

"  What !" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  grew  excited. 

"  Miss  Gimp  ;told  me  that  you  manifested  a  singular 
<     interest  in  us  and  the  babe.     I  asked  her  to  describe 
you,  and  knew  you  by  the  description  in  a  moment; 
therefore  I  am  here."  ^ 

"Bad — bad.     That  is  bad.     I  was  imprudent" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  spoke  to  herself. 

"  I  have  also  seen  Mrs.  Hartley  of  Overton." 

The  face  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  flushed. 

"  She  knew  you  by  my  description." 

"Well?" 

"  But  refused  to  say  who  you  was  or  where  I  could 
find  you,  unless  I  gave  her  my  entire  confidence." 

"  Which  you " 

"Did  not,"  replied  Harding.     "Every  thing  was  so     'j 
much  involved  in  mystery,  that  I  chose  to  be  discreet." 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       181 


"  That  was  well.  But  Miss  Gimp — does  she  know  of 
what  took  place  last  night  ?" 

"  No  one  knows  it  out  of  my  family,  except  Mr.  Long} 
the  schoolmaster,  whose  prudence  is  altogether  to  be 
relied  on." 

It  was  now  Mrs.  Beaufort's  turn  to  be  silent.  For 
many  minuter  she  sat  revolving  in  her  mind  all  the  dim- 
cult  aspects  of  the  affair  in  which  she  had  become  in- 
volved. At  length  she  said— 

"  Mr.  Harding,  all  we  ask  of  you  now  is,  entire  silence  £ 
to  every  one  for  the  present,  in  regard  to  what  has  trans- 
pired. We  will  offer  you  no  personal  inducement  to  se 
cure  this,  for  that  would  be  an  insult  to  your  manliness 
of  character.  But  you  have  laid  us,  and  can  still  lay 
us,  under  a  heavy  burden  of  gratitude.  May  we  trust 
you  ?" 

"As  entirely  as  you  can  trust  yourselves,"  was  the 
unhesitating  answer.  "  I  see  no  good  that  can  arise 
from  bruiting  the  matter  abroad.  Why,  then,  shall  it 
be  done  ?  But  there  is  one  thing  I  must  ask." 

"  Name  it." 

"  The  privilege  for  my  wife  of  seeing  the  babe.     Ah,     <> 
ma'am !    you  know  not  how  she  loves  it.     For  many 
weeks  it  slept  in  her  bosom,  until  it  has  grown  to  be  a     $ 
part  of  herself.     You  know  not  her  distress  at  its  loss,     j; 
Her  eyes  have  been  full  of  tears  ever  since.     To  us  all,     \ 
the  child  has  been  as  an  angel.     Strife  has  ceased  in  its 
blessed  presence,  and  the  lowest  murmur  of  its  sweet     5 
voice  has  been  a  '  Peace,  be  still/  to  the  wildest  storm 
of  passion." 

"  Bring  her  here  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Beaufort,  with 
a  good-will  in  her  voice,  that  betokened  her  earnestness. 
"  We  would  send  our  carriage,  but  for  reasons  that  need 
not  be  suggested  to  you." 

"Yes;   bring  her  over,"   added  Edith.     "I  wish  to 
1ft 


182  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


gee  her  and  know  her.  She  has  laid  my  heart  under  a 
debt  of  gratitude." 

Harding  arose.  "  Once  more  let  me  feel  her  in  my 
arms,"  said  he,  as  he  fixed  his  eyes  lovingly  on  the 
infant. 

The  timid  mother  did  not  hesitate,  but  resigned  to 
him  the  babe,  that  looked  up  fondly  in  his  face,  and 
smiled  its  sweetest  smile. 

"  God  bless  you  and  keep  you."  Harding  spoke  with 
deep  feeling.  He  could  say  no  more.  Kissing  the 
pure  lips  and  brow  many  times  fervently,  he  handed  the 
babe  back  to  her  mother.  As  soon  as  he  had  recovered 
his  self-possession,  he  withdrew  formally,  saying  that  he 
would  see  them,  in  company  with  his  wife,  some  time 
during  the  next  day.  A  few  minutes  afterward,  he  was 
galloping  homeward  as  fast  as  his  horse's  feet  wouM 
carry  him. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       188 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THOUGH  removed  from  them,  as  to  bodily  presence, 
the  angel  of  their  household  still  remained  with  the  car- 
penter and  his  family.     Not  a  member  thereof,  from  the 
rugged  father  down  to  little  Lotty,  but  saw  ever  before 
the   eyes   of  their   spirits,   the   dear  young   face    that 
brought  sunlight  into  their  darkened  dwelling ;  but  they 
Baw  her  with  tear-moistened  vision.     She  was  no  longer 
theirs  in  physical  actuality ;  but  present  as  in  a  dream      > 
that  is  never  forgotten.     Subdued  even  to  sadness,  the 
intercourse   between   the   members   of   the   family   was 
marked  by  a  tender  regard,  the  one  for  the  other.     Each 
felt  the  other's  grief  at  the  loss  of  Grace,  and  desired  to 
lighten  instead  of  increasing  its  pressure.     As  for  Lotty, 
since  Grace  left  them,  she  had  sought  to  win  for  herself     \ 
that  regard  in  her  mother's  heart  which  the  stranger  had     s 
occupied.     She  was  too  young  for  reflection,  and  only     £ 
obeyed  a  heaven-inspired  instinct.     And  as  she  knocked     jj 
at  the  too  long  closed  door  of  her  mother's  heart,  that 
door  gradually  yielded,  until  at  last  the  rusty  hinges  op- 
posed no  resistance,  and  it  swung  wide  open  to  take 
her  in 

The  intelligence  brought  back  from  Clifton,  while  it 
set  the  tears  of  Mrs.  Harding  to  flowing  afresh,  because 
it  extinguished  all  hope  of  the  babe's  restoration  to  her 
arms,  relieved  her  mind  greatly.     There  was  a  certainty 
I    about  this  intelligence,  that  settled  the  doubtful  question     >' 
^    of  its  fate.     It  was,  and  would  be  well  with  the  child. 
\    Her  love  for  it  could  ask  no  more,  though  her  heart  was 
Heeding  from  the  separation. 

To  the  eager  questions  of  the  children — "  Where  Li 


I 


r* 

184       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

';  Grace  ?"  "  Have  you  seen  Grace,  father?"  "  Isn't  she 
!  coming  back  any  more  ?" — Mr.  Harding  answered  with 
^  as  much  information  in  regard  to  her  as  he  deemed  pru- 
5  dent,  assuring  them,  at  the  same  time,  that  if  Grace  did 
not  come  to  them  again,  they  should  go  to  see  her. 

During   the    evening,    Mr.  Long,    the    schoolmaster. 
I;    called  to  learn  the  result  of  Harding's  visit  to  Clifton. 
To  him,  as  a  friend  fully  to  be  confided  in,  the  carpenter 
>    related  the  occurrences  of  the  day. 

"  She  has  been  such  a  blessing,  such  a  comfort  to  us," 
said  Mrs.  Harding,  as  they  sat  talking  of  Grace. 

"  God  has  given  you  many  comforts,  many  blessings," 
answered  the  schoolmaster,  as  he  glanced  meaningly 
toward  her  children,  who  were  all  present,  quiet,  half- 
wondering  auditors.  Andrew,  over  whom  Mr.  Long  had 
j  already  acquired  great  influence,  was  standing  beside  his 
teacher,  proud  of  the  notice  and  gratified  with  the  kind- 
ness ever  extended  to  him  by  his  judicious  friend ;  while 
Lotty,  who  had  climbed  into  her  mother's  lap  was  lying 
close  against  her  breast,  looking  contented — even  happy. 
It  was  on  the  lips  of  Mrs.  Harding  to  reply,  "  If  they 
were  only  like  Grace."  But  her  conscience  rebuked 
her  for  the  thought  ere  it  fbund  utterance,  and  she  re- 
mained silent.  But  she  took  the  lesson  to  her  heart, 
and  as  she  did  so,  drew  her  arm  involuntarily  tighter 
around  Lotty,  wh°,  feeling  the  pressure,  looked  up  at  her 
mother  with  a  smile  of  love.  In  return,  the  soft  cheek 
of  the  mother  was  bent  down  until  it  rested  on  the  &unny 
hair  of  her  child. 

The  schoolmaster  saw  that  he  was  clearly  understood, 
and  did  not  mar  the  good  impression  of  his  words  by 
seeking  to  enforce  their  meaning. 

On  the  next  morning,  quite  early,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hard-    ! 
mg,  accompanied  by  Lotty,  started  for  Clifton.     They 
had  to  pass  the  door  of  Miss  Gimp,  the  dressmaker,  on 
their  way,  and  she  failed  not  to  discover  the  fact  that  th« 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       185 


carpenter  and  his  wife  were  riding  out  together — an 
event  too  noteworthy  to  be  regarded  with  indifference. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?     Where  are  they  going  ?" 

Such  were  her  rather  excited  questions,  as  she  laid 
aside  her  work,  and  tpok  her  place  at  the  window,  to  noto 
the  direction  they  would  take. 

"  Over  to  Clifton  ?  Hardly.  Yes— I  declare  !— if 
they  haven't  taken  the  road  to  Clifton !  Ah,  ha ! 
There's  something  in  the  wind.  I  wonder  if  they  can 
be  going  over  to  Mrs.  Beaufort's.  I  thought  I  could  see 
deeper  into  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Harding  than  she  cared  for. 
I  was  sure  she  knew  more  about  Mrs.  Beaufort  than  was 
pretended.  But  whose  child  is  it  ?  I'd  give  my  little 
finger  to  know." 

Unable  to  work  with  this  mystery  on  her  mind,  Miss 
Gimp  drew  on  her  bonnet,  and  ran  over  to  see  Mrs. 
Willits,  the  storekeeper's  wife,  for  just  a  minute. 

"  Our  carpenter  is  getting  up  in  the  world,"  said  she, 
as  soon  as  she  could  thrust  in  the  words,  after  meeting 
her  friend. 

"  So  I  should  think,"  answered  Mrs.  Willits,  who  had 
Been  Harding  go  by;  "riding  out  with  his  wife  at  a 
time  when  other  people  are  at  work.  My  husband  can't 
afford  such  indulgence." 

"  They  were  always  a  shiftless  set." 

Miss  Gimp  spoke  with  some  indignation.  She  could 
not  forgive  Mrs.  Harding  for  the  impenetrable  reserve 
she  had  thrown  around  herself  at  their  interview  on  the 
previous  afternoon — a  reserve  felt  to  be  both  a  wrong 
and  an  insult. 

"  And  will  come  to  beggary  in  the  end,"  said  Mrs. 
Willits  "  It  was  only  last  evening  that  I  heard  Mr. 
Grant  going  on  about  Harding  at  a  great  rate.  It  ap- 
pears that  he  had  promised  to  call  over  early  in  the 
>  morning  to  consult  with  him  in  regard  to  a  job  that 

16* 


'    Grant,  the  farmer,  wanted  done.     Mr.  Grant  waited  at 


186  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


home  until  dinner-time,  but  no  carpenter  came.  It  made  ; 
him  terribly  angry.  He  stopped  at  our  store  in  the  J 
evening,  and  the  way  he  talked  about  Harding  would  i 
have  done  you  good  to  hear.  He  gave  it  to  him  right  J 
and  left,  I  can  assure  you." 

'*  Didn't  keep  his  promise  with  him  ?" 

"Not  he — Mr.  Indifference  or  Mr.  Independence,  ; 
whichever  you  choose  to  call  him." 

"  Mr.  Shiftless,  you'd  better  say." 

"Well,  Mr.  Shiftless,  then.  And  now  he's  playing  ; 
the  gentleman — riding  out  with  his  wife  as  coolly  as  if  ^ 
he  hadn't  lost  a  good  job  !" 

"Mr.  Grant  won't  have  any  thing  more  to  do  with  5 
him  ?" 

Miss  Gimp  spoke  with  a  kind  of  pleased  inquiry 

"Not  he." 

"  Serves  him  right."  J; 

"  Of  course  it  does.  He  said  that  early  this  morning  '/, 
he  would  go  to  Beechwood  and  engage  a  carpenter  jj 
there;  and  he  swore — for  he  was  in  a  great  passion —  f 
that  if  Harding  starved,  he'd  never  handle  a  dollar  of  hia  \ 
money  so  long  as  he  lived." 

"  I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Miss  Gimp. 

"  Nobody  can  blame  him,"  responded  Mrs.  Willits. 

"  D'ye  know,"  remarked  the  dressmaker,  lowering  her 
voice,  and  speaking  mysteriously,  "  that  in  my  opinion    ; 
something  more  than  a  mere  pleasure  ride  takes  them 
out  this  morning." 

"  What  are  they  after  ?  where  are  they  going  ?"  in- 
qiired  ATrs.  Willits,  brightening  up  at  this  intimation  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Gimp. 

"  They  took  the  road  to  Clifton,  I'm  certain." 

"  To  Clifton  !  Well,  what  great  and  mighty  business 
tikes  them  over  to  Clifton,  I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Something  about  that  child  they've  got,  I'll  venture 
my  existence."  said  Miss  Gimp 


J 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       187 


"  What  of  it  ?" 

Mrs.  Willits  brightened  up  still  more. 

"  I  think  I  can  guess  where  it  came  from." 

« Indeed  !" 

'•  Of  course,  it  is  only  guess-work ;  but,  in  putting 
this  and  that  together,  you  know,  we  often  get  very  near 
the  truth.  I've  been  sewing  at  Mrs.  Barclay's  in  Beech- 
\  wood." 

«  Yes." 

"  You've  heard  of  Mrs.  General  Beaufort,  who  lives  in 
Clifton  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  Well,  I  never  knew  it  before  j  but  she's  the  sister 
of  Mr.  Barclay." 

« Is  she  ?" 

"  Yes.  And  she  came  over  to  see  her  brother  about 
something  while  I  was  there." 

"  Well  ?" 

"  One  day,  when  all  the  family  were  out,  she  came 
into  the  room  where  I  was  alone,  sewing,  and  made  her- 
self quite  sociable.  After  talking  around  a  while,  she 
asked  if  I  knew  Harding  and  his  family.  I  said  that  I 
did.  Then  she  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  people 
they  were.  Of  course,  I  couldn't  give  them  a  very 
exalted  character,  and  didn't.  It  was  plain  enough  to 
be  seen  that  she  had  some  secret  interest  in  them.  Who 
first  spoke  of  that  little  foundling  baby,  I  can't  now  re- 
member ;  but  the  moment  it  was  named,  I  saw  that  sho 
knew  a  great  deal  more  about  it  than  she  cared  me  to 
guess.  In  order  to  bring  her  out,  I  spoke  of  Haidiug 
and  his  wife  in  the  strongest  manner — taking  good  care 
to  say,  that  in  placing  that  child  in  their  hands,  it  was 
like  putting  a  lamb  among  wolves.  She  grew  uneasy 
and  excited  at  this ;  so  much  so,  that  she  clearly  felt  that 
she  was  betraying  herself,  and  left  me  abruptly.  That 
afternoon  she  went  away;  very  unexpectedly  tc  the  fa 


r 


188  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


mily       Depend   upon  it,    Mrs.  Willits,  she  knows    all 
about  that  baby." 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  see  Mrs.  Harding,  and  feel 
around  her?"  inquired  the  storekeeper's  wife,  who  had 
become  much  interested  in  the  dressmaker's  gossip. 

"  I've  been  already,"  answered  Miss  Gimp.  "  I  came 
away  from  Mrs.  Barclay's  a  day  sooner  than  I  intended, 
and  on  purpose." 

"  Ah  ?    Well,  what  did  you  make  out  of  her  ?" 

"Nothing  certain.  I  saw  Harding  and  his  wife,  but 
they  were  as  close-mouthed  as  terrapins." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  them  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  ?" 

"Yes;  and  its  just  my  opinion  that  they  got  out  of 
me  all  I  know,  and  didn't  let  me  see  below  the  surface 
of  their  thoughts.  I  was  so  provoked  !" 

"  And  so  you  learned  nothing  ?"  said  Mrs.  Willits. 

"Nothing  certain.  But  it  takes  sharper  people  than 
«hey  are  to  hide  things  from  my  eyes.  That  both  were 
greatly  interested  in  Mrs.  Beaufort,  and  knew  far  more 
about  her  than  they  chose  to  tell,  was  plain  enough  ;  and 
that  their  ride  over  to  Clifton,  this  morning,  is  to  see 
her,  I  do  not  in  the  last  doubt." 

"I  shouldn't  wonder  at  all,"  remarked  Mrs.  Willits. 
"Mrs.  General  Beaufort!  That  is  news.  Has  she  a 
daughter  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Miss  Gimp. 

"  Why  didn't  you  ask  Mrs.  Barclay  ?" 

"  Just  what  I've  said  to  myself  twenty  times  over. 
£     I'm  provoked  to  death  at  my  own  stupidity." 

"  How  soon  are  you  going  over  there  again  ?" 

"I  can't  tell.     I  don't  think  Mrs.  Barclay  will  want 
f     me  very  soon." 

"  We  must  find  out  in  some  way." 

"  Yes,  indeed.     I'll  not  rest  until  I  know  all  about  it 
<     You  remember  that  Harry  Wilkins  saw  a  woman  carrying 
a  basket  on  the  night  the  child  was  left  at  Harding's  ?" 

\ 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOL BEHOLD.  189 


'  Yes." 

"  Very  well.  He  told  me  that  he's  certain  he  saw  the 
same  woman,  riding  in  a  carriage,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Clifton.  Put  this  and  that  together,  Mrs.  Willits,  and 
it  isn't  very  hard  to  make  out  a  case." 

"  I  should  think  not.  Depend  upon  it,  you're  fairly 
on  the  track,  Harding  isn't  riding  out,  this  morning, 
for  nothing.  Had  they  the  baby  with  them  ?" 

•'  That  I  couldn't  see.  I  tried  my  best  to  look  over 
into  Mrs.  Harding's  arms,  but  her  husband  was  on  the 
side  next  to  me,  and  though  I  got  up  into  a  chair,  it  was 
of  no  use.  But  I  shouldn't  at  all  wonder." 

"  I'll  tell  you  how  you  can  find  out." 

"  How  ?" 

"Just  by  running  over  to  their  house  for  a  minute. 
Of  course,  nobody's  at  home  but  the  children." 

"That's  it,"  replied  Miss  Gimp,  starting  up.     "  I'U 
go  this  instant."     And  she  stepped  toward  the  door. 
i        "  Don't  forget  to  stop  as  you  come  back,"  said  the 
I    storekeeper's  wife. 

"  Oh  !  no.     I'll  be  sure  to  call. 

And  Miss  Gimp  left  with  the  sprightly  step  of  a 
young  girl  of  sixteen.  In  some  twenty  minutes,  she  re- 
turned. 

"  Well  ?"  said  Mrs.  Willits,  as  she  came  in. 

"  No  child  there,"  answered  the  dressmaker. 
£         "No?     Indeed?" 

"  True  as  preaching." 

"  Where  is  it  ?" 

Miss  Gimp  shook  her  head. 

"  Who  was  there  ?" 

"  Only  Philip  and  Lucy." 

"  Couldn't  they  tell  ?" 

"  They  couldn't,  or  wouldn't — which,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
say.  I  never  saw  such  mum,  stupid  little  wretches  in 
uiy  life." 


190  THE   ANQEL   OF   TTIE    HOUSEHOLD. 


"  Did  you  ask  them  where  their  father  and  mother 
had  gone  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  What  answer  did  they  make  ?" 

"  Said  they  didn't  know." 

11  They  lied,  I  suppose — instructed  by  their  parents." 

"  As  like  as  not,"  answered  Miss  Gimp.  "  But  isn't 
it  dreadful  to  think  of  ?  Who  can  wonder  if  they  go  to 
destruction  ?" 

"  Nobody.     And  so  the  child  is  gone  ?" 

"  Yes.  No  doubt  they  took  it  with  them,  this  morn- 
ing. But  I'll  find  out  all  about  it,  by  hook  or  by  crook, 
see  if  I  don't." 

And  with  this  assurance,  the  dressmaker,  who  had  a 
good  deal  of  work  on  hand,  to  be  ready  by  a  certain  time, 
took  her  departure  to  renew  her  vain  efforts  at  meeting 
her  engagements.  To  promise  was  a  part  of  her  profes- 
sion— and  not  to  keep  these  promises  to  the  letter,  the 
other  part.  Having  the  interests  of  the  whole  neigh- 
bourhood to  attend  to,  it  was  impossible  to  be  entirely 
f  urictual  in  sue  h  unimp  irtant  matters. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       191 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IT  was  past  midday  when  the  carpenter  and  his  wife 
returned  from  Clifton,  each  with  sober  but  not  troubled 
countenances.  Their  anxieties  about  the  babe's  welfare 
were  fully  satisfied;  but  they  came  back  with  the  sad 
assurance  that  its  sweet  smile  had  faded  from  their  home 
for  ever — that  an  angel  had  departed  from  among  them, 
and  with  it,  they  feared,  the  sweet,  angelic  influences 
that,  in  so  brief  a  time,  had  made  their  desert  to  blossom 
as  the  rose. 

A  hurried  dinner  was  prepared,  and  then  Harding  went 
to  his  shop,  that  had  now  been  closed  for  nearly  two  whole 
days.  It  was  his  intention  to  go  from  there,  immediately, 
to  farmer  Grant's  to  make  ararngements  about  the  new 
roof,  which  he  had  promised  to  attend  to  immediately. 
He  was  just  on  the  eve  of  doing  so  when  a  neighbour  j 
stopped  at  the  door,  and  said — 

"  Why,  what's  been  the  matter,  Harding  ?  I  was  about     > 
going  over  to  your  house,  to  see  if  you  were  sick  or 
dead." 

"  I've  had  a  little  business  to  attend  to,  which  has     $ 
taken  all  my  time   for  nearly  two  days,"  replied  the 
carpenter;    "but  I'm  through  with  it  now,  and  at  my 
post  again." 

"  You've  lost  a  job  by  it,  I'm  thinking,"  said  the 
neighbour. 

"  How  so  ?" 

"I  heard  Grant  abusing  you  right  and  left  for  not 
keeping  an  engagement,  yesterday  morning.  He  said 
you  promised  to  come  over  and  see  him  about  a  new  roof 
to  his  barn ;  and  that  he  waited  in  for  you  a  greater  part 


\   192       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 

of  the  day.     He  was  dreadfully  put  out;    and  in  the 
<     afternoon,  rode  over  to  Beechwood,  and  engaged  a  car- 
penter there." 

"  Are  you  sure  of  that  ?"  asked  Harding,  as  his  coun- 
tenance fell. 

"  Very  sure.     I  saw  him  riding  over,  myself." 
"  I'm  sorry.     If  he'd  known  why  I  was  unable  to  keep 
\    my  engagement,  he  would  not  have  acted  so  hastily.     1 
f{     was,  this  moment,  about  going  to  see  him." 

"  It  won't  be  of  any  use,  I  can  tell  you.  Why  didn't 
\  you  send  him  word  that  it  was  out  of  your  power  to  see 
j?  him  ?" 

"  I  should  have  done  so,  but  didn't  think  of  it." 
"  And,  what  is  more,"  said  the  neighbour,  "  Mr.  Edgar 
was  going  to  engage  you  to  build  an  addition  to  his  house ; 
but  Grant  talked  so  strong  about  you — saying,  among 
other  things,  that  you  were  not  to  be  depended  upon — 
that  he  concluded  to  employ  another  carpenter.     So  you 
/     see,  this  '  little  business'  of  yours  has  proved  rather  a  bad    | 
j!     business.     But,  good  morning  !    I  mustn't  stop  here." 

The  neighbour  departed.    As  he  turned  his  back,  Hard-    I 
^     ing  folded  his  arms,  and  leaning  hard  against  his  work-    < 
\     bench,  gave  way  to  feelings  of  despondency,  not  un- 
j     mingled  with  reproaches  toward  Heaven    for   the  hard- 
i.     ness,  even  injustice,  of  these  cruel  reactions. 

"  I've  done  nothing  to  merit  this,"  said  he,  in  partial    ;> 

j>     utterance  of   his  true   feelings.     "  Nothing !    nothing  I     \ 

<;     Then  why  am  I  left  without  work,  though  my  hands  are    ; 

strong  and  my  heart  willing  ?    God  never  hedges  up  a    \ 

man's  way  in  one  direction  without  opening  it  in  another    I; 

— so  says  the  schoolmaster — and   so  I  began  to   think 

when  Grant  came  with  the  offer  of  one  job  after  I  had     \ 

ij     lost  another.     But  now  the  way  that  opened  so  encou-    J 

ragingly  before  me  is  closed,  even  before  I  had  set  my    ^ 

J     foot  therein.     I  wonder  in  which  direction  it  will  new    / 

open  ?" 


THE  ANGEL  Of  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       J93 


The  bitterness  of  distrust  was  in  both  Harding's  voice     \ 
and  countenance. 

"  There's  no  use  in  folding  your  arms  and  standing 
idle,"  said  a  voice,  speaking  within  him. 

"Of  course,  not.  But  what  am  I  to  do  ?  There's  not 
5  a  single  stroke  of  work  on  hand."  The  carpenter  an- 
ij  swered  his  own  thought  thus,  speaking  aloud. 

"  Bo  something — make  something.  There  are  luinbei 
;!  and  tools  in  your  shop." 

;j  As  the  inward  voice  said  this,  the  eyes  of  Harding 
!;  rested  on  a  half-finished  pine  table,  which  he  had  com-  ^ 
ff  menced  in  an  idle  hour,  and  thrown  aside  for  other  work.  *f 
!>  It  was  suggested  to  him  to  complete  the  table  rather  than  $ 
;  not  do  any  thing.  This  suggestion  he  resisted  for  a  time,  $ 
]  because  he  had  no  heart  to  work,  particularly  as  the  < 
/  work  promised  no  return. 
\  "  Finish  the  table.  Somebody  will  want  it." 

The  voice  spoke  again.     With  something  like  blind     > 
obedience  to  this  inward  monitor,  the  carpenter   com- 
menced working  on  the  table.     The  effort  naturally  re-     £ 
lieved  his  mind  from  the  heavy  pressure  under  which  it      ' 
!•    was  bowed  down.     He  felt  better,  but  did  not  kuow  why.      ', 
$    He  had  yet  to  learn  that  in  all  useful  work  the  mind 
rests  with  a  degree  of  calmness  j  that  there  is  a  power 
in  true  mental  or  bodily  labour,  to  sustain  the  spirit  in 
doubt,  pain,  or  sorrow.     Once  engaged  in  his  task,  he 
pursued  it  with  a  natural  ardour,  and,  at  the  end  of  two     ,' 
hours,  a  well-made  table  stood  finished  in  his  shop.     He      £ 
was  looking  at  it  with  a  certain  degree  of  pleasure,  when      } 
Stark,  who  had  been  very  shy  of  him  for  some  weeks,      £ 
presented  himself  at  the  shop-door. 

"  The  very  article  I  want,"  said  the  tavern-keeper, 
as  his  eyes  fell  on  the  table.  "Is  it  to  order,  or  ou 
sale?"  ' 

"  Three  dollars  of  anybody's  money  will  buy  it,"  an- 
swered the  carpenter. 

17 


THE  ANGEL   OP   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 



"  Enough  said,"  returned  Stark,  drawing  out  his  purse 
"  Here's  the  coin.  I'll  send  my  Tom  over  for  it  in  half 
an  hour.  And,  see  here,  Harding,  if  you've  got  time, 
wish  you'd  make  me  two  good,  strong  benches,  about 
eight  feet  long.  Some  chaps  got  to  skylarking  over  in 
my  house  last  night,  and  smashed  one  all  to  pieces  fox 
me.  How  much  will  you  charge  for  them  ?" 

The  carpenter  took  a  piece  of  chalk,  and  figured  up 
the  cost  of  the  wood. 

"  Two  dollars  apiece,"  said  he. 

"Very  well.     Make  them.     How  soon  will  they  be 
done  ?" 

"  As  I've  nothing  particular  on  hand  to-day,  I'll  get  5 
out  the  stuff  this  afternoon,  and  finish  them  some  time  <; 
early  in  the  morning." 

"That  will  do."  And  the  tavern-keeper  went  hia  I 
way,  leaving  three  dollars  in  the  carpenter's  pocket,  and  j 
his  mind  something  easier.  The  stuff  for  the  two  benches  •> 
was  got  out,  and  the  work  on  both  nearly  completed  by  ^ 
sundown,  when  Harding  closed  his  sho^  and  returned  s' 
home.  On  his  way,  the  gloomy,  desponding  state  of  ; 
mind  returned.  As  he  looked  into  the  future,  only  a  i> 
wall  of  darkness  loomed  up  before  him.  His  best  cus-  <| 
torners  had  left  him — the  season  was  advanced — and  no  s 
ground  to  build  a  hope  upon  was  under  his  feet.  Mrs  \ 
Harding  saw  the  heavy  contraction  of  his  brows  as  he  jj 
entered,  and  it  caused  a  shadow  to  fall  upon  her  heart. 
Had  the  evil  spirit,  which  the  presence  of  Grace  drove 
out,  come  back  to  him  again  ?  Alas  !  alas  !  if  it  were  so  1  ' 
Yes,  the  evil  spirit  had  come  back,  but,  as  yet,  its  power  ^ 
over  him  was  small.  It  lay  in  his  breast  as  a  live  coal, 
and  only  waited  for  the  fuel  of  excitement  to  kindle  a 
blaze  of  destructive  passion.  Happily,  that  fuel  was 
not  supplied.  There  was  nothing  in  his  home  to  fret  or 
disturb  him.  His  wife  spoke  to  him  so  kindly,  that  he 
could  not  but  answer  kindly,  and  the  children  were  so 


THE   ANGEL   OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD. 

quiet  among  themselves,  that  no  cause  of  annoyance  or 
anger  existed  in  that  direction.  Still,  he  remained  gloomy, 
almost  entirely  silent. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  going  to  become  of  us,  Mary," 
Slid  he,  as  they  sat  together,  after  the  children  had  gone 
to  bed.  The  gentleness  and  kindness  of  his  wife's 
manner  had  gradually  subdued  the  state  of  irritability 
that  threatened  so  much  of  evil;  and  now  he  felt  like 
drawing  nearer  to  her — letting  her  share  his  anxieties, 
and  offer  him  her  sympathy. 

"  Why  do  you  say  this,  Jacob  ?"  Mrs.  Harding  raised 
her  eyes  to  the  sober  face  of  her  husband. 
"  I  haven't  a  stroke  of  work." 

"  How  comes  that  ?"    The  interrogation  was  so  gently 
made,  that  it  encouraged,  instead  of  repressing  confi- 
i    dence. 

"  Dear  knows  !  I  don't  just  understand  it.  To  me,  it 
^  seems  very  strange,  that  just  now  work  should  all  stop, 
^  when  there's  not  been  a  day  before,  in  ten  years,  that  I 
!  hadn't  as  much  as  I  could  do.  I  promised  Mr.  Grant  to 
\  call  yesterday  morning  about  putting  a  new  roof  on  his 
s  barn.  But  you  know  why  I  couldn't  see  him.  He  got 
I  angry  because  I  didn't  keep  my  appointment,  and  gave 
the  job  to  a  carpenter  over  in  Beechwood." 

"  That's  only  a  single  job,"  said  Mrs.  Harding,  without 
seeming  to  be  in  the  least  troubled  by  the  gloomy  prospect 
before  them.  "  You're  a  good  workman,  that  every  one 
knows.  And  I've  often  heard  you  say,  that  a  man  who 
does  good  work,  never  need  fear  but  what  he'll  ha\a 
enough  to  do." 

"  lres,  Mary ;  but  look  how  far  the  season  is  advanced. 
Every  good  job  that  I  expected  has  gone  into  other 
hands,  and  I  don't  know  a  soul  that  now  talks  of  building 
even  a  pig-pen  this  year.  I  feel  completely  disheartened. 
If  we  were  only  a  little  beforehand,  I  wouldn't  feel  HO 


r 


~.  \ 

196       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


bad.  But  we  are  not.  Every  thing  is  run  down,  and  I 
haven't  ten  dollars  ahead." 

Just  then  some  one  knocked  at  the  door.  Harding 
opened  it,  and  found  a  strange  man,  with  a  large  bundle 
in  his  hand.  His  own  name  was  inquired  for. 

"  I  am  the  person,"  he  answered. 

"Mrs.  Beaufort  sent  this  letter  to  you" — handing  a 
letter — "and  this  bundle  to  Mrs.  Harding" — reaching 
out  the  package. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ?"  said  the  carpenter,  as  he  re 
ceived  the  letter  and  package. 

"  No,  sir.  It  is  late,  and  I  must  ride  over  to  Clifton 
to-night." 

The  man  departed,  and  Harding  turned  back  into  the 
house.  Breaking  the  seal  of  the  letter  with  unsteady 
hands,  he  opened  it,  and  read — 

"  I  wish  to  see  you  to-morrow.     Come  over  early.     If  j> 

I  am  not  mistaken,  I  can  serve  your  worldly  interests  £ 

materially.     I  learn  that  you  are  a  good  workman,  and  j 

faithful  in  the  performance  of  whatever  you  may  under-  ;> 

take.     I  am  about  putting  up  several  outbuildings,  and  £ 

making  some  important  alterations  in  my  house.     It  is  j 

<     partly  in  reference  to  these  matters  that  I  wish  to  see  f> 
s     you.                                           "  EDITH  BEAUFORT." 

Within  this  letter,  another,  directed  to  Mrs.  Harding,    ^ 
\     was  enclosed. 

"  O  Jacob !     Just  see  here  !"     By  the  time  her  hus- 
band had  gathered  the  meaning  of  his  letter,  Mrs.  Hard-    ? 
ing  xwas  in  full  possession  of  the  contents  of  hers.     Aa    \ 
she  thus  exclaimed,  she  held  up  two  bank  bills,  each    \ 
claiming  the  valuation  of  fifty  dollars,  while  her  face  had 
a  bright,  joyful,  wondering  expression. 

"Why,  Mary  1"  ejaculated  the  bewildered  carpenter,    \ 
as  he  reached  out  for  the  letter  of  his  wife.     It  read —        , 

.  —    .^»— « 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  1J/7 


"  Accept,  dear  madam,  from  one  who  can  never  for- 
get, and  never  repay  the  debt  she  owes  you,  the  enclosed 
as  a  first  act  of  justice.  Use  it  for  yourself  and  children. 
Accept,  also,  a  few  small  presents  for  yourself  and  them 
I  have  talked  much  with  my  mother  about  you  and  youi 
good  husband  since  you  left  us  this  morning;  and  I 
think,  if  there  is  nothing  to  bind  you  to  your  present 
place  of  abode,  that  we  shall  soon  have  you  near  us.  We 
are  about  making  some  extensive  repairs,  improvements, 
and  alterations  in  and  around  our  home,  and  my  mother 
thinks  that  your  husband  is  just  the  man  to  whom  she 
can  safely  intrust  their  execution.  She  desires  him  to 
see  her  in  the  morning.  Urge  him  to  come  without  fail. 
"  Yours,  with  gratitude, 

"  EDITH  PERCIVAL." 

"  ItJs  broad  daylight  now."  Such  were  the  carpen- 
ter's words,  after  sitting  silent  for  some  moments. 

"  The  darkest  hour  is  just  before  daybreak,  you  know," 
said  Mrs.  Harding,  her  eyes  filling  with  glad  tears. 

"  Providence  never  hedges  up  a  man's  way  in  ono 
direction,  without  opening  it  in  another.  So  Mr.  Long 
said  to  me ;  and  so  I  tried  to  believe.  But  how  can  one 
believe  with  a  momntain  rising  up  in  his  path,  and  thick 
darkness  on  either  side  of  him  ?  I  cannot." 

"  But  let  us  not  forget,  Jacob" — Mrs.  Harding' s  voice 
was  subdued,  almost  humble — "  what  more  the  school- 
master said  in  his  kind  and  earnest  talks  with  us." 

"  What  did  he  say,  Mary  ?" 

"That  the  hedging  up  of  our  way  in  life,  and  the 
opening  of  new  paths,  are  not  for  the  alone  sake  of 
worldly  good." 

"  Yes,  I  remember."  The  carpenter  bowed  his  head 
thoughtfully. 

"  But  for  the  sake  of  heavenly  and  eternal  good," 
continued  Mrs  Hardin.  "  How  much  he  talked  of  our 


L98  THE  ANGEL   OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


mental  wants,  and  of  our  mental  sufferings !  and  as  he 
talked,  did  we  not  both  see  and  feel,  that  mere  bodily 
wants  and  sufferings  were  nothing  in  comparison  to 
these  ?  The  natural  event  of  finding  a  babe  at  our  door, 
which  we  received  with  reluctance,  how  much  delight  ;>f 
mind  it  produced !  Now,  it  was  in  providence,  as  Mr. 
Long  said,  that  the  babe  was  so  left  at  our  door ;  and  does 
it  not  seem,  that  it  was  so  provided  for,  in  order  that, 
through  this  natural  event,  our  spirits  might  become 
better  and  happier  ?  Surely,  we  are  aJ  better  and  hap- 
pier for  the  presence  of  dear  little  Grace  among  us  ?" 

"  Have  I  not  said  so  a  hundred  times,  Mary  ?"  There 
was  light  in  the  carpenter's  face  as  he  said  this. 

"  And  will  we  not  all  be  better  and  happier,  if  we  can 
be  where  our  eyes,  every  little  while,  may  look  upon  her 
angel  face  ?  Oh  yes,  I  know  we  will,  for  the  sight  of 
that  face  will  lift  our  hearts  upward,  and  make  us  desire 
that  spiritual  innocence  of  which,  as  Mr.  Long  so  beauti- 
fully said,  she  was  the  perfect  bodily  correspondent. 
And  the  desire  will  prompt  us  to  resist  the  evils  of  our 
nature ;  and  if  we  resist  evil,  you  know,  it  is  said  that  it 
will  depart  from  us.  Dear  husband !" — and  as  Mrs. 
Harding,  animated  with  her  subject,  leaned  toward  him, 
and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  the  carpenter  saw,  as  of 
late  he  had  seen  so  many  times,  the  sweet  beauty  in  her 
face  that  had  charmed  and  won  his  love  in  the  time  gone 
by—  l'  iear  husband  !  let  us  believe  that  the  hedging  up 
of  your  wiy  in  the  old  direction,  and  the  opening  of  it  in 
this,  is  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  worldly  prosperity 
as  for  the  higher  good  of  our  spirits.  Oh  !  is  not  peace 
of  mind  more  to  be  desired  than  all  earthly  benefits? 
It  is,  Jacob ;  my  heart — your  heart — replies  that  it  is. 
Let  us,  then,  in  accepting  the  earthly  good,  look  still 
higher,  and  claim  the  better  portion  that  may  be  ours." 

"  You  are  learning  these  wise  lessons  faster  than  I 
am,  Mary/  said  the  carpenter,  with  a  tenderness  of 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD.       199 


manner  that  rent  to  the  heart  of  his  wife.  "  In  tho 
school  of  good  I  shall  be,  I  fear,  a  slow  learn  ar.  But  the 
apter  scholar  must  have  patience  with  my  poor  progress. 
I  am  hasty,  moody,  and  passionate  by  nature,  Mary,  aa 
you  know  too  well.  As  you  overcome,  give  me  aid.  If 
you  can  keep  your  heart  in  the  sunlight,  mine  will  not 
long  remain  under  the  cloud.  If  your  sky  continues 
serene,  the  storm  will  soon  pass  from  mine.  Try  and 
remember  this,  Mary,  and  in  my  darker  moods,  bear 
with  me.  You  will  surely  have  your  reward." 

"And  in  my  darker  moods,  Jacob,"  answered  his 
wife  —  "  and  they  will  come  —  for  I,  too,  am  hasty  and 
passionate  :  you  must  bear  with  me.  Oh,  let  us  help 
one  another  !" 

The  pledges  and  promises  of  that  hour  were  never  for- 
gotten, as  the  brighter,  happier  future  attested.  On 
examining  the  package  sent  by  the  mother  of  Grace,  it 
was  found  to  contain  various  articles  of  clothing  for  Mrs. 
Harding  and  her  children,  besides  a  handsome  vest  pat- 
tern, and  a  dozen  fine  silk  handkerchiefs  for  the  carpen- 
j!  ter.  They  were  gratefully  received,  coming,  as  they  did 
'/  so  timely,  and  under  circumstances  that  did  not  make  the 
(  gift  a  burdening  obligation.  Tranquil  was  their  sleep 
s  that  night,  and  the  morning  of  a  new  day  found  them 

looking  hopefully  into  the  brightening  future 
I 


I 


THE   ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A  MONTH  later  in  the  progress  of  events,  and  we  find 
the  carpenter  and  his  family  residing  in  a  small,  neat 
house,  on  the  estate  of  Mrs.  Beaufort,  happily  relieved 
from  all  anxiety  about  the  "  bread  that  perishes,"  and 
surrounded  with  more  of  taste  and  comfort  than  they 
had  ever  known.  Harding  had  already  entered,  actively, 
upon  the  execution  of  such  work  as  Mrs.  Beaufort  first 
desired,  and,  thus  far,  was  giving  every  satisfaction. 
Why  should  this  not  be  ?  for  he  was  quick  and  skilful 
in  all  the  branches  of  his  trade,  and  perfectly  honest  in 
the  execution  of  whatever  might  be  intrusted  to  him. 
All  that  could  be  done  to  make  Mrs.  Harding's  new 
home  a  pleasant  one  was  done  by  Mrs.  Percival,  who 
came  over,  almost  daily,  to  see  her,  accompanied  by  her 
babe,  whose  visits  to  the  carpenter's  family  ever  seeme'd 
like  the  shining  in  of  sunbeams.  Grace  was  still  the 
angel  of  their  household,  beating  back  through  her  sweet 
presence  to  their  bodily  eyes,  or,  when  absent,  to  the 
eyes  of  their  spirits,  the  natural  passions,  which,  like  evil 
beasts,  were  striving  to  devour  the  innocent  affections 
just  born  in  their  hearts,  and  which  were  daily  gaining 
strength  and  beauty.  Bright  moments  to  Harding,  in 
the  day's  circle  of  hours,  were  those  in  which  the  babe, 
borne  in  the  arms  of  her  nurse,  came  out  to  see  him  at 
his  work.  If  he  laid  down  his  axe,  his  saw,  or  his  piano 
at  such  times,  that  he  might  take  the  happy  little  one, 
and  hold  her  against  his  heart,  who  could  blame  the  act, 
or  deem  him  an  idler  from  his  tasks  ?  Not  a  stroke  the 
less  was  given  for  these  moments  of  self-indulgence — if 
we  may  call  them  by  so  cold  a  name — for  th^y  «eut  new 


THE  ANGEL  Of  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


life  through  the  carpenter's  nerves,  and  fresh  vigour  to 
his  willing  hands. 

Only  a  few  weeks  were  permitted  to  pass  ere  the 
public  announcement  of  Edith's  marriage  was  made,  ac- 
companied by  such  evidence  to  all  interested  friends,  as 
removed  even  the  shadow  of  doubt  or  suspicion.  Tht 
fact  of  the  babe's  abandonment  by  its  mother  at  the  dooi 
of  a  stranger,  was  never  clearly  understood.  That  it  had 
been  in  the  carpenter's  family  was  known  j  but  under 
what  peculiar  circumstances  it  came  there,  was  a  matter 
of  question  even  to  the  neighbours  of  Harding.  Beyond 
this  narrow  circle,  it  was  taken  for  granted,  that  in  order 
to  conceal  the  marriage  and  birth  of  the  child,  Mrs. 
!;  Harding  had  been  selected  as  the  nurse,  and  pledged  to 
\  secrecy  in  regard  to  its  parentage.  Even  among  the  car- 
!  penter's  old  neighbours,  this  theory  finally  prevailed,  in 
I;  consequence  of  its  adoption  by  Miss  Gimp. 
^  "  I  always  said" — so  the  dressmaker  gossiped,  after 
J  having  settled  to  her  own  satisfaction  all  the  difficulties 
$  presented  by  the  case — "  that  Mrs.  Harding  knew  a 
s  great  deal  more  about  the  child  than  she  cared  to  tell. 
I  I  said  this  in  the  beginning,  and  I've  never  altered  my 
i;  mind.  You  can't  make  me  believe  that  people  like  the 
i  Hardings  would  take  a  strange  babe  into  their  house,  and 
!  treat  it  even  better  than  one  of  their  own,  unless  well 
paid  for  it.  It  isn't  in  nature,  much  less  in  the  nature 
£  of  such  people." 

And  this  solution  of  the  matter  was  pretty  generally 

,''    adopted,  thus  saving  the  young  mother  that  crushing 

•;    odium  which  must  have  followed  the  clear  annunciation 

of  her  act,  even  done  as  it  was  in  a  state  of  partial 

^    derangement. 

Two  months  only  had  passed,  since  Edith  was  pre- 
sented to  her  friends  in  her  true  character,  when  Colonel 
D'Arcy,  not  to  be  baffled  in  the  pursuit  of  her  hand,      I 
j     wrote  her  a  long,  earnest  letter  of  sympathy  and  coo-      > 

L 


202  THE  ANGEL  OF  THE   HOUSEHOLD. 


fidence,  begging  forgiveness  at  the  same  time  for  thtj 
ardour  of  his  attentions  at  a  period  when  she  must  have 
been  bowed  to  the  earth  with  sorrow — a  sorrow  of  which 
he  was  "  necessarily  ignorant" — and  asking  the  privilege  i 
of  occasionally  visiting  at  her  mother's  house  as  a  friend. 
Not  to  leave  the  matter  solely  to  her  unbiassed  decision, 
the  gallant  colonel  wrote  also  to  Mrs.  Beaufort,  mention- 
ing his  letter  to  her  daughter;  and  frankly  saying  to  > 
her  that,  notwithstanding  the  secret  marriage  of  Edith,  ! 
and  birth  of  a  child,  now  that  her  husband  was  dead,  he  ; 
was  ready  again  to  offer  his  hand.  Instantly,  the  smoul-  ^ 
dering  ambition  of  this  proud  woman  was  fanned  into  a  j; 
blaze;  and,  once  more,  sne  resolved  to  compass,  if  pos-  ; 
sible,  the  long-desired  marriage  of  her  daughter.  The  ;> 
acknowledgment  of  Edith's  true  relation — that  of  the  1; 
widowed  wife  of  an  obscure,  young  adventurer — would,  < 
she  had  not  doubted,  at  once  settle  all  so  far  as  D'Arcy  £ 
was  concerned;  and  this  was  why  she  strove  so  despe-  \ 
rately  to  prevent  its  taking  place.  In  consenting  to  pub-  £ 
licity,  she  had  abandoned  her  ambitious  hopes.  Now,  f 
they  all  started  again  into  vigorous  life.  The  hand  of 
her  daughter  was  yet  deemed  worthy  of  possession,  even 
by  Colonel  D'Arcy;  the  marriage,  so  dear  to  her  heart, 
might  yet  be  accomplished;  and  she  instantly  resolved 
that  its  failure  should  not  be  in  consequence  of  any  want 
of  effort  on  her  part. 

The  two  letters  came  by  the  same  post.  Edith  had 
just  finished  reading  hers,  when  Mrs.  Beaufort,  the  ar- 
dour of  whose  reawakened  purpose  impelled  to  an  imme- 
diate interview  with  h«r  daughter,  entered  the  room 
where  she  sat,  with  the  flush  of  outraged  womanhood  yet 
warm  upon  her  cheeks. 

"  Is  your  letter  from  Colonel  D'Arcy  ?"  inquired  the 
mother,  slightly  hesitating,  in  the  conscious  conviction 
that  the  subject  would  be  disagreeable. 

"  I*  is,"  was  Edith's  simple  yet  firm  response. 


THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD       203 


"  He  knows  of  your  marriage  ?" 

«  Yes." 

"  May  I  see  your  letter  ?" 

Edith  handed  the  letter  to  her  mother,  who,  after 
reading  it,  said — 

"  What  answer  will  you  make  ?" 

"None,"  was  replied. 

"None  !     That  will  be  uncourteous." 

"  He  is  entitled  to  no  courtesy  from  me,"  was  the  de- 
ll   waive  answer,  "  and  will  get  none." 

"  But,  Edith" — Mrs.  Beaufort's  face  was  flushing,  and 
her  eyes  beginning  to  glitter. 

"  Mother  I" — Edith  interrupted   her — "  what  I  have 
!     said  to  you,  hitherto,  about  this  man,  was  said  from  the     ;j 
^    heart;    and  I  give  it  a  repeated  utterance,  hardly  re- 
pressing a   cry  of  abhorrence.     His  very  name  is  an     \ 
offence;  and  his  presence  here,   if  you  permit  him  to 
;     come,  will  be  to  me  an  outrage.    I  understand  the  hidden 
I    import  of  his  glossing  letter  clearly ;  but  he  writes  to  me 
'}    in  vain.     No — not  even  as  a  friend  will  I  receive  him. 
:    Mother! "  \ 

A  hurried  step  was  heard  this  instant  in  the  hall,  and  ;1 
Edith,  checking  the  utterance  of  what  was  on  her  tongue,  ;• 
started,  with  eager  eyes  and  changing  cheeks,  to  the  '<; 
floor.  With  hands  raised  and  partly  extended,  and  her  <; 
gaze  riveted  on  the  entrance  to  the  room,  she  stood,  < 
her  ear  bent  to  the  sounding  tread  of  a  man's  ap-  !; 
proaching  feet.  An  instant  more,  and  uttering  wildly  •; 
the  cry — 

"  Henry  !  Oh,  my  husband  !  my  husband  !"  she 
threw  herself  upon  the  breast  of  a  tall,  handsome,  em- 
browned young  man,  who  sprung  forward  to  receive  her, 
and  catching  Ear  eagerly  in  his  arms,  covered  her  face 
with  kisses. 

"  0  Henry !  am  I  dreaming  ?"  sobbed  the  bewildered  ; 
young  creature,  as,  disengaging  herself  partly  from  his 


204  THE   ANGEL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


arms,  she  gazed  into  his  face,  pressing  the  hair  back  with 
both  hands  from  his  ample  forehead. 

"Not  dreaming,  Edith,  dear,"  he  answered.  "The 
dream  is  past — this  is  the  glad  awakening." 

"  My  husband  !  My  dear,  dear  husband  !"  And, 
fondly,  Edith  laid  her  head  upon  his  bosom.  A  moment 
only  it  rested  there;  then,  starting  up,  she  caught  him 
by  the  arm,  and,  drawing  him  toward  a  door  that  opened 
into  an  adjoining  room,  said — 
"  Come." 

He  followed,  as  she  led. 
"  Look !" 

They  had  entered,  and  were  beside  a  cradle  in  which 
their  babe  was  sleeping. 

"It  is  ours,  Henry! — our  sweet,  precious  one! — our 
darling  Grace  1"  And  lifting  it  tenderly,  she  laid  it  in 
his  arms. 

As  if  a  blasting  spectre  had  met  her  vision,  Mrs. 
|  Beaufort  fled  to  her  chamber  at  the  sight  of  Percival, 
i  and  was  now  hidden  from  all  eyes  but  those  of  her 
s  Maker.  She  had  fully  believed  him  dead,  and  had  re- 
£  joiced  in  his  death;  his  sudden  appearance,  therefore, 
!>  was  as  of  one  risen  from  the  dead.  His  coming,  too, 
;!  just  as  old  schemes,  so  long  cherished,  were  about  being 
;>  reconstructed,  to  scatter  all  her  mad  ambition  to  the 
!;  wind,  seemed  so  like  Heaven's  mockery,  that,  with  a 
']  crushed,  helpless  feeling,  she  shrunk  into  herself,  and 
'/  bowed  her  spirit  in  the  bitterness  of  forced  submission. 

Two  hours  afterward — Edith,  who  knew  her  too  well 

•;     to  intrude  during  the  time,  had  not  even  tapped  at  her 

;>     chamber-door — she  came  forth,  and  received  the  nusbaud 

of  her  daughter  with  a  degree  of  cordiality  altogether 

<!     unexpected. 

"We  believed  you  dead,  Mr.  Percival,"  said  she. 
<  "  Can  you  explain  why  we  were  deceived  by  false  intclli- 
;!  gence  ?  Mr  Marig  wrote  to  us,  first,  that  you  were  verj 


THE   ANtrfiL   OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD.  205 


'!f    ill,   and  soon  after,  that  you  had  died  of  a  malignant 
^    southern  fever  " 

\        "  L  was   ill,  very  ill,   for  a  time,"   the  young   man 
i    answered,  "  but  not  of  a  malignant  southern  fever.     The 
physician  at  the  hospital  to  which  I  was  sent  to  die,  and 
where,  in  providence,  I  was  permitted  to  recover,  strongly 
suspected  that  I  had  been  unfairly  dealt  by — some  of  my 
symptoms  resembling  in  a  marked  degree  the  effects  of 
\    poison."  j 

"  Poison  !"     Mrs.  Beaufort  looked  startled  as  she  gave    !; 
almost  involuntary  utterance  to  the  word. 

"  Yes;  and  I  have  now  but  little  doubt  that  such  was  ; 
<!  the  case ;  for  I  learn,  with  no  small  surprise,  that  after  i 
fj  my  reported  death,  Colonel  D'Arcy  renewed  his  offers  j 
|  for  the  hand  of  Edith." 

\  "  Colonel  D'Arcy !  What  of  him  ?  What  had  he  to  'j 
^  do  with  your  sickness  ?"  Mrs.  Beaufort's  countenance  J 
)  became  suddenly  clouded.  j 

"  I  know  not  that  he  had  any  thing  to  do  with  it," 
',    replied  Percival ;   "  but  this  I  know,  he  was  a  friend  of 
\    Mr.  Maris,  and  visited   him  on   the  night  I  was  taken 
sick.     They  drank  wine  together,  and  both  urged  me 
with   such  gracious  kindness  to  take  a  glass  of  sherry 
;    with   them,   that  I  could  not  refuse.     Colonel  D'Arcy 
\     touched   his   glass   to  mine,  and  said,   in  a  singularly 
J     altered  voice,  so  it  struck  me  at  the  moment — 
"  '  Your  good  health,  Mr.  Percival.' 
u  I  did  not  like  the  man,  for  out  of  his  eyes  an  evil 
s     spirit  had  ever  looked  at  me.     On  this  particular  occa- 
;    sion,  that  spirit  seemed  to  glare  upon  me  with  a  kind  of 
malignant  triumph.     Soorf  after  drinking  the  wine,   1 
felt  an  unusual  heat  in   my  stomach,  which  gradually 
pervaded  my  system.     My  head  grew  heavy  and  painful, 
{    aid  my  body  hot  and  sluggish.     On  complaining  of  in- 
disposition, Mr.  Maris  advised   me  to  go  home,  saying 
that  a  few  hours'   rest  would  restore  me.     But  so  far 
is 


206       THE  ANGEL  OP  THE  HOUSEHOLD. 


from  that,  I  was  in  a  raging  fever  all  night,  and  early  on 
the  next  morning,  at  his  suggestion,  as  I  afterward 
learned  of  Mr.  Maris,  I  was  sent  to  the  hospital  to  die. 
An  ordinary  fever  would  have  run  to  its  crisis,  termi- 
nating in  favour  of  or  against  the  patient,  in  a  certain 
number  of  days ;  but  the  fever  which  had  seized  upon 
me  was  altogether  different,  and  seemed  as  if  it  would 
never  tire  drinking  at  my  vitals.  When,  at  last,  its  fire 
abated,  I  was  left  so  much  exhausted,  that  small  hope  of 
recovery  was  felt  by  either  physician  or  attendants.  It 
was  more  than  two  mouths  before  strength  sufficient  to 
bear  the  weight  of  my  body  was  gained.  Then  the  life- 
current  began  to  flow  more  freely ;  and  a  few  weeks  of 
rapid  convalescence  placed  me  so  near  to  health,  that  I 
ventured  to  make  this  homeward  journey.  Soon  after  I 
was  taken  to  the  hospital,  a  man  named  Henry  Percjval 
died  in  one  of  the  sick  wards.  Mr.  Maris,  I  suppose,  < 
took  it  for  granted  that  my  death  was  the  one  reported,  ; 
and  immediately  communicated  the  fact  to  you." 

For  a  considerable  time  after  the  young  man  ceased  / 
speaking,  Mrs.  Beaufort  sat  with  her  eyes  upon  the  floor,  ; 
evidently  in  deep  and  troubled  thought. 

"  There's  a  dark  mystery  here,"  she  said,  at  length,  •' 
speaking  partly  to  herself.  "  Mr.  Maris,  then,  is  a  par-  ; 
ticular  friend  of  Colonel  D'Arcy  ?"  she  added,  raising  her  I; 
eyes. 

"  They  appeared  to  be  very  intimate.     I  often  saw 
them  together." 

"It's  a  strange  story."     She  again  seemed  speaking    '\ 
to  herself.     "  And  I  can't   make   it   all   out.      Colonel 
D'Arcy  ?— Mr.  Maris  ?— pois*on  ?" 

As  Percival  looked  at  her  fixedly,  he  saw  a  low  shudder 
pass  through  her  frame.     A  dark  suspicion  entered  his     ; 
mind  on  the  instant,  but  he  resolutely  thrust  it  out;  and, 
in  doing  so,  he  was  but  just  to  Mrs.  Beaufort.     If  he  had 


THE  ANGEL  OF  HIE  HOUSEHOLD.       207 


been  dealt  by  foully,  of  which  there  was  small  reason  to 
doubt,  she  was  no  party  to  the  wicked  deed. 

A  few  days  afterward,  Colonel  D'Arcy,  following  up 
his  letters  with  a  degree  of  confident  assurance,  made  a 
visit  to  Clifton,  in  order  to  throw  the  weight  of  his  per- 
sonal influence  in  the  scale,  and  thus  secure  a  prepon- 
derance in  his  favour. 

Mrs.  Beaufort,  now  that  all  blinding  antagonism  toward 
Percival  was  laid  aside,  and  closer  contact  gave  her  a  bet- 
ter view  of  his  character  and  a  clearer  appreciation  of  his 
worth,  began  to  find  herself  drawn  toward  him  with  a 
power  of  attraction,  at  first  resisted,  but  hourly  gaining 
strength.  His  intelligence  was  of  a  different  order  from 
that  by  whose  glitter  she  had  been  attracted  through  life. 
It  was  not  the  obtrusive  intelligence  which  is  assumed 
for  effect — illustrating  only  the  pride  of  its  possessor — 
but  had  in  it  a  soul  of  moral  wisdom — a  beautiful  hu- 
manity, warm  with  *a  higher  life.  Often,  as  he  talked, 
she  listened  with  something  akin  to  wonder ;  and,  as  her 
eyes  rested  upon  his  animated  countenance,  she  saw  in  it 
a  manly  beauty,  caught  from  the  inspiring  soul,  that  com- 
pelled a  half-reluctant  admiration.  Not  unfrequently,  at 
these  times,  would  the  face  of  Colonel  D'Arcy  present 
itself  before  the  eyes  of  her  mind  with  singular  vividness, 
yet  ever  marred  by  an  expression,  well  remembered  as 
peculiarly  its  own,  but  now,  as  seen  in  contrast  with  the 
fine  countenance  of  Percival,  felt  to  be  cruel,  selfish,  and 
debasingly  sensual.  Almost  with  a  shudder,  at  such 
times,  would  she  close  her  bodily  eyes,  seeking  to  destroy 
the  unpleasant  vision.  It  was  on  an  occasion  like  thia 
that  the  servant  announced  Colonel  D'Arcy. 

"  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Beaufort,  thrown  en- 
;  tirely  from  her  guard. 

The  name  was  repeated. 

"  Tell  him  that  I  will  be  down  in  a  few  minutes,"  she 
'  said,  recovering  herself. 

L 


\     208 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE    HOUSEHOLD. 


For  some  moments  the  three  looked  at  each  other  in 
doubt  and  irresolution.  All  of  them  knew  well  the  object 
of  his  visit.  Percival  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Let  us,"  said  he,  "  go  down  together  and  receive  him. 
He  thinks  I  am  dead,  if  he  thinks  of  me  at  all.  Should 
my  suspicions  be  true,  at  sight  of  me  he  will  be  thrown 
from  his  guard  and  betray  himself.  Come  !  Let  us  go  at 
once." 

And  he  arose,  moving  on  a  pace  or  two  in  the  direction 
}f  the  door.  Mrs.  Beaufort  and  Edith  followed,  as  if  im- 
pelled by  nis  will — the  latter  carrying  Grace  in  her  arms. 

Side  by  side  they  entered  the  parlour  where  D' Arcy  sat 
awaiting  some  member  of  the  family. 

«  Colonel  D'Arcy !" 

Mrs.  Beaufort  inclined  her  body  gracefully,  and  smiled 
upon  her  visitor  with  a  bland  smile.  But  he  saw  not  the 
motion  nor  the  smile,  for  his  eyes  were  riveted  instantly 
on  the  calm  face  of  Percival,  who,  with  his  young  wife 
shrinking  to  his  side  and  holding  her  babe  against  her 
bosom,  looked  at  him  steadily  and  sternly.  Only  for  a 
moment  did  he  stand  in  the  attitude  of  astonishment  as- 
sumed as  the  unexpected  apparition  confronted  him — 
then,  with  a  look  of  dismay  and-»  exclamation  of  terror, 
he  swept  past  the  little  group  and  fled  from  the  house. 

"  I  did  not  err  in  my  suspicions,"  said  Percival,  speak- 
ing with  entire  self-possession.  "  He  is  guilty  of  having 
sought  my  life.  Dear  Edith  !"  he  added,  as  he  drew  an 
arm  around  her,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  pure  forehead 
— "  how  thankful  am  I  for  your  dear  sake  that  his  wicked 
purpose  failed." 

"  My  children  I" 

The  arms  of  Mrs.  Beaufort  were  flung  suddenly  around 
them  both. 

"My  children  I" 

Her  voice  choked,  and  what  she  would  have  said  further, 


L 


THE  ANQEL  OF  THE  HOLSEHOLD.       209 


remained  unspoken.     Pride  could  not  suffer  her  to  betray 
the  strong  agitation  she  felt. 

There  were  a  few  moments  of  silence.  Then  she  dis- 
engaged har  arms,  and  turning  from  them,  retired  with 
slow  and  stately  steps  to  her  own  apartments. 


One  scene  more,  briefly  sketched,  and  the  curtain  must 


\     fall  upon  our  characters. 

A  few  months  have  glided  pleasantly  by.     The  nearer     I- 
ft     view  that  Mrs.  Beaufort  now  had  of  the  son-in-law  ac- 
\    cepted  with  such  an  intense  reluctance,  enabled  her  to     < 
>     see  the  higher  qualities  of  mind  with  which  he  was  en-      '< 
dowed  ;  as  well  as  the  sterling  virtues  already  developed     \ 
m  one  so  young.     Her  estates  were  large,  and  needed  the 
£     intelligent  care  of  a'  man  who  had  some  acquaintance  with 
legal  and  landed  afiairs.     This  knowledge,  the  education 
of  Percival  had  in  a  measure  supplied;   and  his  calm 
judgment  and  integrity  of  purpose  were  a  guarantee  for 
•!     the  rest  that  Mrs.  Beaufort  was  very  ready  to  accept :  and      ' 
!    the  result  involved  no  measure  of  disappointment. 

So  well  pleased  was  she  with  our  friend  the  carpenter, 
that  she  soon  made  a  contract  with  him  to  remain  as 
overseer  on  her  estate,  at  a  liberal  salary. 

It  was  a  warm  afternoon  near  the  close  of  the  ensuing      t 
May,  that  Mrs.  Percival  stepped  across  the  broad  green      £ 
lawn  that  sloped  gently  from  her  mother's  fine  old  man-      i 
sion,  and  took  her  way  to  the  pleasant  cottage-home  of 
the  carpenter  and  his  family,  that  stood  only  at  a  short 
distance.     On  entering,  she  found  no  one  in  the  sitting- 
room  ;  but,  with  the  familiarity  of  a  friend  who  knows 
the  awaiting  welcome  at  all  times,  she  pushed  open  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  apartment,  when  a  sight  met  her 
18* 


210       THE  ANGEL  OF  THE  HOUSEHOLD 


eyes  that  made  the  blood  leap  wanner  from  her  heart, 
A  week  before,  had  been  born  in  that  chamber,  aoothei 
babe  ;  and  it  was  to  see  the  mother  and  inquire  after  her 
wants,  if  any  were  unsupplied,  that  Mrs.  Percival  had 
now  come.  She  supposed  that  Harding  was  absent  at 
work  ;  but  this  was  not  so.  The  fact  was,  scarcely  an 
hour  passed  during  each  day,  since  the  little  stranger 
came,  that  he  did  not  run  in  to  look  at  its  fair  young 
face,  or  take  it  in  his  great,  strong  arms,  and  bear  it  about 
the  room.  He  was  sitting  now  near  the  bed,  where  lay 
his  happy  wife,  with  her  face  turned  toward  him  and  the 
babe  j  and  he  was  holding  the  tender  little  one  on  hia 
arm,  and  gazing  with  a  look  that  could  not  be  mistaken 
for  love,  down  upon  the  sweet  image  of  innocence. 
Around  were  grouped  the  children,  and  little  Lotty, 
standing  between  her  father's  knees,  was  laying  her  white 
finger  softly  on  the  baby's  cheek,  and  talking  to  it 
fondly. 

As  Mrs.  Percival  swung  open  the  door,  and  at  a  glance 
comprehended  the  scene,  she  said,  with  a  pleasant  fami- 
liarity that  her  previous  intercourse  with  them  war« 


"  Ah  !  nursing  that  baby  again,  Mr.  Harding  ?  Why, 
one  would  think  yon'd  never  had  a  baby  in  your  house 
before  !" 

"  We  never  knew  the  value  of  a  baby,"  replied  the 
jarpenter,  "  until  yours  came  to  us  and  won  our  hearts. 
Ah  I  She  was  the  Angel  of  our  Household,  and  it  was  a 
hard  trial  to  see  her  go  forth  never  to  return  again.  But 
God  has  given  us  another  angel." 

"  And  may  she  be  dearer  to  you  than  the  one  you  have 
lost,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  as  she  reached  over  and  took 
the  ^recious  burden  from  the  ajms  of  MX.  Harding. 

you  chosen  a  name  for  it  yet  ?" 
-  s,  Harding  glanced  toward  her  husband. 


THE   ANGEL  OF   THE   HOUSEHOLD.  211 


"  It  was  chosen  the  hour  of  her  birth,"  answered  the 
carpenter. 

« Is  it  Grace  ?" 

Mrs.  Percival  smiled  as  she  made  the  inquiry. 

"  No  other  name  would  express  our  love  for  her.  Yes, 
it  is  Grace  I" 

"May  she  indeed  prove,  as  I  am  sure  she  will,  the 
Angel  of  your  Household,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  with  touch- 
ing solemnity. 

An  audible  "Amen"  broke  the  stillness  that  followadj 
and,  as  we  repeat  the  word,  the  curtain  falls. 


7H*  KMSi 

I  1 


HOME   MISSION. 


Br  T.  S.  ARTHUR 


PREFACE. 


IP  it  were  possible  to  trace  back  to  their  begin- 
nings, in  each  individual,  those  good  or  evil  impulses 
that  have  become  ruling  affections,  in  most  cases 
the  origin  would  not  be  found  until  we  had  reached 
the  home  of  childhood.  Here  it  is  that  impressiona 
are  made,  which  become  lasting  as  existence  itself. 
But  the  influence  of  home  is  not  alone  salutary  or 
baneful  in  early  years.  Wherever  a  home  exists, 
there  will  be  found  the  nursery  of  all  that  is  excel- 
lent in  social  or  civil  life,  or  of  all  that  is  deformed. 
Every  man  and  woman  we  meet  in  society,  exhibit, 
in  unmistakable  characters,  the  quality  of  their 
homes.  The  wife,  the  husband,  the  children,  the 
guest,  bear  with  them  daily  a  portion  of  the  spirit 
pervading  the  little  circle  from  which  they  have  \ 
come  forth.  If  the  sun  shines  there,  a  light  will  \ 
be  on  their  countenances ;  but  shadows,  if  clouds 
are  in  the  sky  of  home.  If  there  be  disorder,  de- 
fect of  principle,  discord  among  the  members,  *i 
neglect  .of  duty,  and  absence  of  kind  offices,  the  \ 

sphere  of  those  who  constitute  that  home  can  hardly     i 

i*  6 


6  PHEPACl. 

be  salutary.  They  will  add  little  to  the  common 
stock  of  good  in  the  social  life  around  them.  We 
need  not  say  how  different  will  be  the  influence  of 
those  whose  home-circle  is  pervaded  by  higher, 
purer,  and  truer  principles. 

A  word  to  the  wise  is,  we  are  told,  sufficient. 
He,  therefore,  who  speaks  a  true  word  in  the  ear 
of  the  wise,  has  planted  a  seed  that  will  surely 
spring  up  and  yield  good  fruit.  May  we  hope  that 
all  into  whose  hands  this  little  book  is  destined  to 
come  are  wise,  and  that  the  few  suggestive  words 
spoken  therein,  as  "hints  to  make  home  happy," 
will  fall  into  good  ground.  If  this  be  so,  "  The 
Home  Mission"  will  not  be  fruitless.  Though  no 
annual  reports  of  what  it  has  accomplished  are 
made,  its  silent  and  unobtrusive  work,  we  trust, 
will  be  none  the  less  effectual. 


THE 

HOME  MISSION. 


A  VISION  OF  CONSOLATION. 

THE  tempest  of  grief  which,  for  a  time,  had  raged 
so  wildly  in  the  heart  of  Mrs.  Freeland,  exhausted 
by  its  own  violence,  sobbed  itself  away,  and  the 
stricken  mother  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

To  the  afflicted,  sleep  comes  with  a  double  blessing 
— rest  is  given  to  the  wearied  body  and  to  the  griev- 
ing  spirit.  Often,  very  often,  the  Angel  of  Consolation 
bends  to  the  dreaming  ear,  and  whispers  words  of 
hope  and  comfort  that  from  no  living  lips  had  yet 
found  utterance. 

And  it  was  so  now  with  the  sleeping  mother.  A 
few  hours  only  had  passed  since  she  stood  looking 
down,  for  the  last  time,  on  the  fair  face  of  her 
youngest  born.  Over  his  bright,  blue  eyes,  into 
whose  heavenly  depths  she  had  so  loved  to  gaze,  the 
pale  lids  had  closed  for  ever.  Still  lingered  around 
his  lips  the  smile  left  there  by  the  angels,  as,  with 
a  kiss  of  love,  they  received  his  parting  spirit.  In 
the  curling  masses  of  his  rich,  golden  hair,  the 
shadows  nestled  away,  as  of  old,  while  his  tiny 
fingers  held  a  few  white  blossoms,  as  with  a  living 
grasp.  Was  it  death  or  sleep  ?  So  like  a  sleeping 
child  the  sweet  boy  lay,  that  it  seemed  every  mo- 


8  THE   HOME    MISSION. 

;  ment  as  if  his  lips  would  unclose,  his  eyes  open  to 
^  the  light,  and  his  voice  come  to  the  listening  ear 
with  its  tones  of  music. 

If  to  the  mother  had  come  this  illusion,  it  remained 
not  long.  Wild  with  grief,  she  turned  away  as  the 
sweet  face  she  had  so  loved  to  gaze  upon  was  hidden 
from  her  straining  eyes  for  ever. 

Hidden  from  her  eyes,  did  we  say  ?  Only  hidden 
from  her  natural  eyes.  Still  he  wafs  before  the  eyes 
of  her  spirit  in  all  his  living  beauty.  But,  to  her 
natural  affections,  he  was  lost — even  as  he  had  faded 
from  before  her  natural  eyes ;  and,  in  the  agony  of 
bereavement,  it  seemed  that  her  heart  would  break. 
Back  to  her  darkened  chamber  she  went.  Her 
nearest  and  dearest  friends  gathered  around,  seeking 
lovingly  to  sustain  her  in  her  great  affliction ;  but 
she  refused  to  be  comforted. 

At  length,  as  at  first  said,  the  tempest  of  grief, 
which,  for  a  time,  raged  so  violently  in  the  heart  of 
Mrs.  Freeland,  sobbed  itself  away,  and  the  stricken 
mother  passed  into  the  land  of  dreams. 

For  the  most  part,  dreams  are  fantastic.  Yet 
they  are  not  always  so.  Jn  states  of  deep  sorrow  01 
strong  trial,  when  the  heart  turns  from  the  natural 
world,  hopeless  of  aid  or  consolation,  truth  often 
comes  in  dreams  and  similitudes. 

The  mother  found  herself  in  the  company  of  two 
beautiful  maidens,  in  the  very  flower  of  youth ;  and 
as  she  gazed  earnestly  into  their  faces,  which  seemed 
transparent  from  an  inward  celestial  light,  she  saw 
expectation  therein — loving  expectation.  They 
stood  beneath  the  eastern  portico  of  a  pleasant 
dwelling,  around  which  stately  trees — the  branches 


A   VISION   OF   CONSOLATION.  9 


vocal  with  the  song  of  feathered  minstrels — lifted 
their  green  tops  far  up  into  the  crystal  air.  Flowers 
of  a  thousand  hues  and  sweet  odours  were  woven 
into  forms  and  figures  of  exquisite  beauty  upon  the 
carpet  of  living  green  spread  over  the  teeming  earth, 
while  groups  of  little  children  sported  one  with  an- 
other, and  mingled  their  happy  voices  with  the 
melody  of  birds. 

Yet,  amid  all  this  external  joy  and  beauty,  the 
hand  of  grief  still  lay  upon  the  mother's  heart ;  and 
when  she  looked  upon  the  sportive  infants  around  her, 
she  sighed  for  her  own  babe.  Even  as  she  sighed, 
one  of  the  maidens  turned  to  her  and  said,  while 
her  whole  countenance  was  lit  up  with  a  glow  of 
delight — 

"  It  has  come.     A  new  babe  is  born  unto  heaven." 

And,  as  she  spoke,  she  gathered  her  arms  quickly 
to  her  bosom,  and  the  wondering  mother  saw  lying 
thereon  her  own  child.  The  other  maiden  was 
already  bending  over  the  infant — already  had  she 
greeted  its  coming  with  a  kiss  of  love.  Quickly 
both  retired  within  the  dwelling,  and  the  bereaved 
mother  went  with  them,  eager  to  receive  the  babe 
she  had  lost. 

"  Oh,  my  child !  my  child  !"  she  said.  "  Give  me 
my  child." 

And  ere  the  words  had  died  upon  her  lips,  the 
maiden  who  had  received  the  babe  gave  it  into  her 
arms,  when  she  clasped  it  with  a  wild  delight,  and 
rained  tears  of  gladness  upon  its  face. 

For  a  time,  the  two  maidens  looked  upon  the 
mother  in  silence,  and  in  their  bright  countenances 
love  and  pity  were  blended  At  length,  one  of  them 


10  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


\    Baid  to  her,  (and  she  smiled  sweetly,  and  spoke  with 
;>    an  exquisite,  penetrating  tenderness,) — 

"  Your  heart  is  full  of  love  for  your  babe  ?" 

"He  is  dearer  to  me  than  life — dearer  thar  a 
<    thousand  lives,"  replied  the  mother  quickly,  drawing 
the  babe  closer  to  her  bosom. 

"  Love  seeks  to  bless  the  object  of  its  regard." 

There  was  a  meaning  in  the  words  and  tone  of  the 
maiden,  as  she  said  this,  that  caused  the  mother  to 
look  into  her  face  earnestly. 

"  This  is  not  the  land  of  sickness,  of  sorrow,  of 
death,"  resumed  the  maiden,  "  but  the  land  of  eternal 
life  and  blessedness.     Into  this  land  your  babe  has 
been  born.     You  are  here  only  as  a  visitant,  and   !> 
must  soon  return  to  bear  a  few  more  trials  and  pains,   \ 
a  few  more  conflicts  with  evil ;  but  the  end  is  your  j> 
preparation  for  these  heavenly  regions." 

A  shadow  fell  instantly  upon  the  mother's  heart.  > 
Tears  rushed  to  her  eyes,  and  she  drew  her  arms  | 
more  tightly  about  her  babe. 

"  Shall  we  keep  this  babe  in  our  heavenly  home,  \ 
or  will  you  bear  it  with  you  back  to  the  dark,  cold,  < 
Bad  regions  of  mortality?" 

"Do  not  take  from  me  my  more  than  life !"  sob- 
bed the  mother  wildly.  "  Oh !  I  cannot  give  you 
my  child;"  and  more  eagerly  she  hugged  it  to  her 
breast. 

For  a  time  there  was  silence.  Then  one  of  the 
maidens  laid  gently  her  hand  upon  the  mother,  and 
she  lifted  her  bowed  head. 

u  Come,"  said  the  maiden. 

The  mother  arose,  and  the  two  walked  into  the 
open  air,  and  passing  through  the  grcup  of  children 


A   VISION   OF   CONSOLATION.  Jl 


sporting  on  the  lawn  and  in  the  gardens,  \\ent  for 
what  seemed  the  space  of  a  mile,  until  they  came  to 
a  forest,  into  the  depths  of  which  they  penetrated ; 
and,  for  a  time,  the  farther  they  went  the  darker 
and  more  gloomy  it  became,  until  scarcely  a  ray  of 
light  from  the  arching  sky  came  down  through  the 
dense  and  tangled  foliage.  At  last  they  were  beyond 
the  forest. 

"  Look,"  said  the  companion. 

The  mother  lifted  her  eyes — the  babe  had  strangely 
passed  from  her  arms.  A  dwelling,  familiar  in 
aspect,  stood  near,  and  through  an  open  window  she 
saw  a  sick  child  lying  upon  a  bed,  and  knew  it  as 
her  own.  Its  little  face  was  distorted  by  pain  and 
flushed  with  fever ;  and  as  it  tossed  restlessly  to  and 
fro,  its  moans  filled  her  ears.  She  stretched  forth 
her  hands,  yearning  to  give  some  relief;  even  as  she 
did  so,  the  scene  faded  from  her  view,  and  next  she 
saw  an  older  child,  bearing  still  the  linaments  of  her 
own.  There  was  the  same  broad,  white  forehead  !; 
and  clustering  curls ;  the  same  large,  bright  eyes  s 
and  full,  ruddy  lips ;  but,  alas !  not  the  soft  vail  of  •; 
innocence  which  had  given  the  features  of  the  babe  > 
such  a  heavenly  charm.  The  fine  brow  was  con-  \ 
tracted  with  passion  ;  the  eyes  flashed  with  an  evil 
light;  and  the  lips  were  tightly  drawn,  and  with 
something  of  defiance,  against  the  teeth.  The  boy 
was  resisting,  with  a  stern  determination,  the  will 
of  the  parents — was  setting  at  naught  those  early  < 
salutary  restraints  which  are  the  safeguard  of  \ 
youth. 

"  Oh  !  my  unhappy  boy  !"  cried  the  mother. 

The  scene  changed  as  she  spoke.     The  boy,  now 


12  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


grown  up  to  manhood,  once  more  stood  before  her. 
\  Alas !  how  had  the  light  of  innocence  faded  from 
his  countenance,  giving  place  to  a  shadow  of  evil, 
the  very  darkness  of  which  caused  a  cold  shudder  to 
pass  through  the  mother's  frame. 

"  Look  again,"  said  the  maiden,  as  this  scene  was 
fading. 

But  the  mother  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  and 
turned  weeping  away. 

"Look  again."  And  this  time  there  was  some- 
thing so  heart-cheering  in  the  maiden's  voice,  that 
the  mother  lifted  her  tearful  eyes.  She  was  back 
again  in  the  beautiful  place  from  which  she  had 
gone  forth  a  little  while  before,  and  her  babe,  beau- 
tiful as  innocence  itself,  lay  sweetly  sleeping  in  the 
arms  of  the  lovely  maiden  who  had  received  it  on. 
its  first  entrance  into  heaven.  With  a  heart  full  of 
joy,  the  mother  now  bent  over  the  slumbering  babe, 
kissing  it  again  and  again. 

"  Grieving  mother,"  said  the  angel-maiden,  in 
tones  of  flute-like  softness,  "  God  saw  that  it  would 
not  be  good  for  your  child  to  remain  on  earth,  and 
he  therefore  removed  it  to  this  celestial  region,  where 
no  evil  can  ever  penetrate.  To  me,  as  an  angel- 
mother,  it  has  been  given ;  and  I  will  love  it  and 
care  for  it  with  a  love  as  pure  and  tender  as  the  love 
that  yearns  in  your  bosom.  As  its  infantile  mind 
opens,  I  will  pour  in  heavenly  instruction,  that  it 
may  grow  in  wisdom  and  become  an  angel.  Will 
you  not  let  me  have  it  freely  ?" 

"But  why  may  I  not  remain  here  and  be  its 
heavenly  mother  ?  Oh !  I  will  love  and  care  for  it 


A   VISION   OF   CONSOLATION. 


witn  a  tenderness  and  devotion  equal  to,  if  not  ex- 
ceeding yours." 

Even  while  the  mother  spoke  there  was  a  change. 
She  saw  before  her  other  objects  of  affection.  There 
was  her  husband,  sitting  in  deep  dejection,  sorrowing 
for  the  loss  of  one  who  was  dear  as  his  own  life ; 
while  three  children,  the  sight  of  whom  stirred  her 
maternal  heart  to  its  profoundest  depths,  lay  sleep- 
ing in  each  other's  arms,  the  undried  tears  yet 
glistening  on  their  lashes. 

The  wife  and  mother  stretched  forth  her  hands 
toward  these  beloved  ones,  eager  to  be  with  them 
again  and  turn  their  grief  irito  gladness.  But,  in  a 
moment,  there  passed  another  change.  The  pleasant 
home  in  which  her  children  had  been  sheltered  for 
years,  no  longer  held  them;  the  fold  had  been 
broken  up  and  the  tender  lambs  scattered.  One  of 
these  little  ones  the  mother  saw,  sitting  apart  from 
a  group  of  sportive  children,  weeping  over  some  task 
work.  The  bloom  on  her  cheek  had  faded — its 
roundness  was  gone — the  light  of  her  beautiful  eyes 
was  quenched  in  tears.  And,  as  she  looked,  a  wo- 
man came  to  the  child  and  spoke  to  her  harshly. 
She  was  about  springing  forward,  when  another 
scene  was  presented.  Her  first-born,  a  noble-spirited 
boy,  to  whose  future  she  had  ever  looked  with  pride 
and  pleasure,  stood  before  her.  Alas !  how  changed. 
Every  thing  about  him  showed  the  want  of  a  mother's 
care  and  considerate  affection ;  and  from  his  dear, 
young  face  had  already  vanished  the  look  of  joyous 
innocence  she  had  so  loved  to  contemplate. 

Again  the  mother  was  in  the  presence  of  the 
angel-maiden,  to  whose  loving  arms  a  good  God  had 


14  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


confided  the  babe,  which,  in  his  wisdom,  he  had  re- 
moved from  the  earth.  And  the  angel-maiden,  as 
she  looked  first  at  the  babe  in  her  arms  and  then  at 
the  mother,  smiled  sweetly  and  said — 

"  He  is  safe  here ;  will  you  not  let  him  remain  ?" 

And,  with  a  gushing  heart,  the  mother  answered, 
"  Not  for  worlds  would  I  take  him  with  me  into  the 
outer  life  of  nature.  Oh,  no  !  He  is  safe — let  him 
remain." 

"  And  you  will  return  to  those  who  still  need  your 
love  and  care?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  mother,  earnestly.  "Let  jj 
me  go  to  them  again.  Let  me  be  their  angel  on  5 
earth." 

And  she  bent  hastily  to  the  heaven-born  babe, 
kissing  it  with  tearful  fondness. 

There  came  now  another  change.  The  mother 
was  back  again  in  her  chamber  of  sorrow ;  and  un- 
dried  tears  were  yet  upon  her  cheeks.  But  she  was 
comforted  and  reconciled  to  the  great  affliction  which 
had  been  sent  for  good  from  heaven. 

Those  who  saw  Mrs.  Freeland  in  the  first  wild 
grief  that  followed  the  loss  of  her  babe,  wondered 
at  her  serene  composure  when  she  came  again  among 
them.  And  they  wondered  long,  for  she  spoke  not 
of  this  Vision  of  Consolation.  It  was  too  sacred  a 
thing  to  be  revealed,  to  any  save  the  companion  of 
her  life. 


THE   STEP-MOTHER 


THERE  are  few  positions  in  social  life  of  greater 
ff  trial  and  responsibility  than  that  of  a  step-mother  ; 
5  and  it  too  rarely  happens  that  the  woman  who 
'I  assumes  this  position,  is  fitted  for  the  right  discharge 
\  of  its  duties.  In  far  too  many  cases,  the  widower  is 
accepted  as  a  husband  because  he  has  a  home,  or  a 
position  to  offer,  while  the  children  are  considered 
as  a  drawback  in  the  bargain.  But  it  sometimes 
happens,  that  a  true  woman,  from  genuine  affection, 
unites  herself  with  a  widower,  and  does  it  with  a 
loving  regard  for  his  children,  and  with  the  purpose 
in  her  mind  of  being  to  them,  as  far  as  in  her  power 
lies,  a  wise  and  tender  mother. 

Such  a  woman  was  Agnes  Green.  She  was  in 
her  thirty-second  year  when  Mr.  Edward  Arnold,  a 
widower  with  four  children,  asked  her  to  become  his 
wife.  At  twenty-two,  Agnes  had  loved  as  only  a 
true  woman  can  love.  But  the  object  of  that  love 
proved  himself  unworthy,  and  she  turned  away  from 
him.  None  knew  how  deep  the  heart-trial  through 
[  which  she  passed — none  knew  how  intensely  she 
f  Buffered.  In  part,  her  pale  face  and  sobered  brow 
;  witnessed,  but  only  in  part ;  for  many  said  she  was 
(  cold,  and  some  even  used  the  word  heartless,  when 

(    they  spoke  of  her.    From  »arly  womanhood  a  beauti- 
J    *  16 


16  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


ful  ideal  of  manly  excellence  had  filled  her  mind ; 
and  with  this  ideal  she  had  invested  one  who  proved 
false  to  the  high  character.  At  once  the  green 
things  of  her  heart  withered,  and  for  a  long  time  its 
surface  was  a  barren  waste.  But  the  woman  was 
yet  strong  in  her.  She  must  love  something.  So 
she  came  forth  from  her  heart-seclusion,  and  let  her 
affections,  like  a  refreshing  and  invigorating  stream, 
flow  along  many  channels.  She  was  the  faithful 
friend,  the  comforter  in  affliction,  the  wise  counsel- 
lor. More  than  once  had  she  been  approached  with 
offers  of  marriage,  by  men  who  saw  the  excellence 
of  her  character,  and  felt  that  upon  any  dwelling, 
in  which  she  was  the  presiding  spirit,  would  rest  a 
blessing.  But  none  of  them  were  able  to  give  to 
the  even  pulses  of  her  heart  a  quicker  motion. 

At  last  she  met  Mr.  Arnold.  More  than  three 
years  had  passed  since  the  mother  of  his  children 
was  removed  by  death,  and,  since  that  time,  he  had 
sought,  with  all  a  father's  tenderness  and  devotion, 
to  fill  her  place  to  them.  How  imperfectly,  none 
knew  so  well  as  himself.  As  time  went  on,  the  want 
of  a  true  woman's  affectionate  care  for  his  children 
was  more  and  more  felt.  All  were  girls  except  the 
youngest,  their  ages  ranging  from  twelve  downward, 
and  this  made  their  mother's  loss  so  much  the  more 
a  calamity.  Moreover,  his  feeling  of  loneliness  and 
want  of  companionship,  so  keenly  felt  in  the  begin- 
ning,  instead  of  diminishing,  increased. 

Such  was  his  state  of  mind  when  he  met  Agnes 
Green.  The  attraction  was  mutual,  though,  at  first, 
no  thought  of  marriage  came  into  the  mind  of  either. 
A  second  meeting  stirred  the  placid  waters  in  the 


THE  STEP-MOTHER  17 


bosom  of  Agnes  Green.  Conscious  of  this,  and  fear- 
ful lest  the  emotion  she  strove  to  repress  might  be- 
come apparent  to  other  eyes,  she  assumed  a  certain 
reserve,  not  seen  in  the  beginning,  which  only  be- 
trayed her  secret,  and  at  once  interested  Mr.  Arnold, 
who  now  commenced  a  close  observation  of  her 
character.  With  every  new  aspect  in  which  this 
was  presented,  he  saw  something  that  awakened 
admiration ;  something  that  drew  his  spirit  nearer 

\    to  her  as  one  congenial.     And  not  the  less  close  was 

i    her  observation. 

When,  at  length,  Mr.  Arnold  solicited  the  hand 

\   of  Agnes  Green,  she  was  ready  to  respond.     Not, 


.;  however,  in  a  selfish  and  self-seeking  spirit ;  not  in 
</  the  narrow  hope  of  obtaining  some  great  good  for 
;;  herself,  was  her  response  made,  but  in  full  view  of 
;>  her  woman's  power  to  bless,  and  with  an  earnest, 
;  holy  purpose  in  her  heart,  to  make  her  presence  in 
\  his  household  indeed  a  blessing. 

"  I  must  know  your  children  better  than  I  know  \ 

|    them  now,  and  they  must  know  me  better  than  they  /, 

|    do,  before  I  take  the  place  you  wish  me  to  assume,"  ;! 

'    was  her  reply  to  Mr.  Arnold,  when  he  spoke  of  an  \ 

I    early  marriage.  > 

And  so  means  were  taken  to  bring  her  in  fre-  s 

quent  contact  with  the  children.     The  first  time  she  > 

met  them  intimately,  was  at  the  house  of  a  friend.  ', 

\    Mary,  the  oldest  girl,  she  found  passionate  and  self-  I- 

willed ;  Florence,  the  second,  good-natured,  but  care-  ^ 

less  and  slovenly ;  while  Margaret,  the  third,  was  in  j; 

ill   health,    and   exceedingly   peevish.      The    little  < 

brother,  Willy,  was  a  beautiful,  affectionate  child,  \ 

but  in  consequence  "f  injudicious  management,  very  jj 


THE   HOME    MISSION. 


badly  spoiled.  Take  them  altogether,  they  pre-  ; 
sonted  ratner  an  unpromising  aspect ;  and  it  is  no  I 
wonder  that  A^nes  Green  had  many  misgivings  at  | 
heart,  when  the  new  relation  contemplated,  and  ita 
trials  and  responsibilities,  were  pictured  to  her  ; 
mind. 

The  earnestly-asked  question  by  Mr.  Arnold,  after  ;> 
this  first  interview, — "What  do  you  think  of  my  • 
children?" — was  not  an  easy  one  to  answer.  A  ;> 
selfish,  unscrupulous  woman,  who  looked  to  the  con-  < 
nection  as  something  to  be  particularly  desired  on  ! 
her  own  account,  and  who  cared  little  about  duties  ; 
and  responsibilities,  might  have  replied,  "  Oh,  they  I 
are.  lovely  children!"  or,  "I  am  delighted  with  ;j 
them !"  Not  so  Agnes  Green.  She  did  not  reply 
immediately,  but  mused  for  some  moments,  con- 
siderably embarrassed,  and  in  doubt  what  to  say. 
>  Mr.  Arnold  was  gazing  intently  in  her  face. 

"  They  do  not  seem  to  have  made  a  favourable 
;  impression,"  said  he,  speaking  with  some  disappoint- 
!  ment  in  his  tone  and  manner. 

A  feeble  flush  was  visible  in  the  face  of  Agnes 
^  Green,  and  also  a  slight  quiver  of  the  lips  as  she 
;  answered : 

"  There  is  too  much  at  stake,  as  well  in  your  case 
as  my  own,  to  warrant  even  a  shadow  of  conceal- 
ment.    You  ask  what  I  think  of  your  children,  and 
<    you  expect  me  to  answer  truly  ?" 

"I  do,"  was  the  almost  solemnly-spoken  reply. 

"  My  first  hurried,  yet  tolerably  close,  observa- 
tion, has  shown  me,  in  each,  a  groundwork  of  natural    ; 
good." 

"As  theii  father,"  replied  Mr.  Arnold,  in  some 


THE   STEP-MOTHER.  19 


earnestness  of  manner,  "  I  know  there  is  good  in 
them, — much  good.  But  they  have  needed  a  mother's 
care." 

"  When  you  have  said  that,  how  much  has  been 
expressed!  If  the  garden  is  not  cultivated,  and 
every  weed  carefully  removed,  how  quickly  is  it 
overrun  with  things  noxious,  and  how  feeble  becomes 
the  growth  of  all  things  good  and  beautiful !  It  is 
just  so  with  the  mind.  Neglect  it,  and  bad  habits 
and  evil  propensities  will  assuredly  be  quickened  into 
being,  and  attain  vigorous  life." 

"  My  children  are  not  perfect,  I  know,  but — " 

Mr.  Arnold  seemed  slightly  hurt.  Agnes  Green 
interrupted  him,  by  saying,  in  a  mild  voice,  as  she 
laid  her  hand  gently  upon  his  arm  : 

"  Do  not  give  my  words  a  meaning  beyond  what 
they  are  designed  to  convey.  If  I  assume  the  place 
of  a  mother  to  your  children,  I  take  upon  myself  all 
the  responsibilities  that  the  word  'mother'  involves. 
Is  not  this  so?" 

"  Thus  I  understand  it.' 

"  My  duty  will  be,  not  only  to  train  these  children 
for  a  happy  and  useful  life  here,  but  for  a  happy  and 
useful  life  hereafter." 

"  It  will." 

"It  is  no  light  thing,  Mr.  Arnold,  to  assume  the 
place  of  a  mother  to  children  who,  for  three  years, 
nave  not  known  a  mother's  affectionate  care.  I  con- 
fess that  my  heart  shrinks  from  the  responsibility, 
and  I  ask  myself  over  and  over  again,  '  Have  I  the 
requisite  wisdom,  patience,  and  self-denial  ?'  " 

"  I  believe  you  have,"  said  Mr.  Arnold,  who  was 
beginning  to  see  more  deeply  into  the  heart  of 


> 

•'     20  THE   HOME    MISSION. 

<  . 

\  /Agnes.     "And  now,"  he  added,  "tell  me  what  yoi 
$    think  of  my  children." 

"  Mary  has  a  quick  temper,  and  is  rather  self- 
willed,  if  my  observation  is  correct,  but  she  has  a 
warm  heart.  Florence  is  thoughtless,  and  untidy  in 
her  person,  but  possesses  a  happy  temper.  Poor 
Maggy's  ill  health  has,  very  naturally,  soured  her 
disposition.  Ah,  what  can  you  expect  of  a  suffering 
child,  who  has  no  mother  ?  Your  little  Willy  is  a 
lovely  boy,  somewhat  spoiled — who  can  wonder  at 
this  ? — but  possessing  just  the  qualities  to  win  for 
j  him  kindness  from  every  one." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will  love  him,"  said  Mr.  Arnold, 
«;    warmly. 

"I  have  no  doubt  on  that  subject,"  replied  Agnes 
;    Green.     "  And  now,"  she  added,  "  after  what  I  have 
said,  after  showing  you  that  I  am  quick  to  see  faults, 
once  more  give  this  matter  earnest  consideration. 
If  I  become  your  wife,  and  take  the  place  of  a    !; 
\    mother  to  these  children,  I  shall,  at  once, — wisely    ^ 
£    and  lovingly,  I  trust, — begin  the  work  of  removing    J 
^    from  their  minds  every  noxious  weed  that  neglect    > 
!;    may  have  suffered  to  grow  there.     The  task  will  be    ^ 
;!    no  light  one,  and,  in  the  beginning,  there  may  be    ;> 
rebellion  against  my  authority.     To  be  harsh  or    \ 
hard  is  not  in  my  nature.     But  a  sense  of  duty    \ 
will  make  me  firm.     Once  more,  I  say,  give  this    \ 
matter  serious  consideration.     It  is  not  yet  too  late    1; 
to  pause." 

Mr.  Arnold  bent  his  head  in  deep  reflection.    For    \ 
many  minutes  he  sat  in  silent  self-communion,  and 
eat  thus  so  long,  that  the  heart  of  Agnes  Green 
began  to  beat  with  a  restricted  motion,  as  if  there 


THE   STEP-MOTHER.  21 

was  a  heavy  pressure  en  her  bosom.  At  last  Mr. 
Arnold  looked  up,  his  eyes  suddenly  brightening, 
and  his  face  flushing  with  animation.  Grasping  her 
hands  with  both  of  his,  he  said : 

"  I  have  reflected,  Agnes,  and  I  do  not  hesitate. 
Yes,  I  will  trust  these  dear  ones  to  your  loving 
guardianship.  I  will  place  in  your  hands  their 
present  and  eternal  welfare,  confident  that  you  will 
be  to  them  a  true  mother." 

And  she  was.  As  often  as  it  could  be  done  be- 
fore tne  time  appointed  for  the  marriage,  she  was 
brought  in  contact  with  the  children.  Almost  from 
the  beginning,  she  was  sorry  to  find  in  Mary,  the 
oldest  'child,  a  reserve  of  manner,  and  an  evident 
dislike  toward  her,  which  she  in  vain  sought  to  over- 
come. The  groundwork  of  this  she  did  not  know. 
It  had  its  origin  in  a  remark  made  by  the  house- 
keeper, who,  having  learned  from  some  gossipping 
relative  of  Mr.  Arnold  that  a  new  wife  was  soon  to 

f(   be  brought  home,  and,  also,  who  this  new  wife  was 

\    to  be,  made  an  imprudent  allusion  to  the  fact,  in  a 

£   moment  of  forgetfulness. 

"  Your  new  mother  will  soon  put  you  straight,  my 

\   little  lady,"  said  she,  one  day,  to  Mary,  who  had 

,'   tried  her  beyond  all  patience. 

"  My  new  mother  !  "Who's  she,  pray  ?"  was  sharply 

;    demanded. 

"Miss  Green,"  replied  the  unreflecting   house- 

!    keeper.     "  Your  father 's  going  to  bring  her  home 

;    one  of  these  days,  and  make  her  your  mother,  and 

>    she'll  put  you  all  right — she'll  take  down  your  fine 

f    airs,  my  lady  !" 

"Will  she?"    And  Mary,  compressing  her  lips 


22  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


tightly,  and  drawing  up  her  slender  farm  to  its  full 
height,  looked  the  image  of  defiance.  s 

From  that  moment  a  strong  dislike  toward  Miss  <i 
Green  ruled  in  the  mind  of  Mary ;  and  she  resolved,  \ 
should  the  housekeeper's  assertion  prove  true,  not  s 
only  to  set  the  new  authority  at  defiance,  but  to  inspire,  ; 
if  possible,  the  other  children  with  her  own  feelings.  < 

The  marriage  was  celebrated  at  the  house  of  Mr.  \ 
Arnold,  in  the  presence  of  his  own  family  and  a  jj 
few  particular  friends,  Agnes  arriving  at  tl^  hour  ft 
appointed. 

After  the  ceremony,  the  children  were  brought  \ 
forward,  and  presented  to  their  new  mother.  The 
youngest,  as  if  strongly  drawn  by  invisible  chords  of 
affection,  sprung  into  her  lap,  and  clasped  his  little 
arms  lovingly  about  her  neck.  He  seemed  very 
happy.  The  others  were  cold  and  distant,  while 
Mary  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  wife  of  her  father, 
jj  with  a  look  so  full  of  dislike  and  rebellion,  that  no 
one  present  was  in  any  doubt  as  to  how  she  regarded 
the  new  order  of  things. 

Mr.  Arnold  was  a  good  deal  fretted  by  this  unex- 
pected conduct  on  the  part  of  Mary ;  and,  forgetful 
of  the  occasion  and  its  claims,  spoke  to  her  with 
some  sternness.  He  was  recalled  to  self-possession 
by  the  smile  of  his  wife,  and  her  gently-uttered  re- 
mark, that  reached  only  his  own  ear : 

"  Don't  seem  to  notice  it.  Let  it  be  my  task  to 
overcome  prejudices." 

During  the  evening  Mary  did  not  soften  in  the 
least  toward  her  step-mother.  On  the  next  morn- 
ing, when  all  met,  for  the  first  time,  at  the  breakfast 
table,  the  children  gazed  askance  at  the  calm,  digni- 


TUB   STEP-MOTHER.  23 


fied  we  man  who  presided  at  the  table,  and  seemed 
ill  at  ease.     On  Mary's  lip,  and  in  her  eye,  was  an 
expression  so  like  contempt,  that  it  was  with  diffi 
culty  her  father  could  refrain  from  ordering  her  to 
her  own  room. 

The  meal  passed  in  some  embarrassment.  At  ita 
conclusion,  Mr.  Arnold  went  into  the  parlour,  and 
his  wife,  entering  at  once  upon  her  duties,  accompa- 
nied the  children  fo  the  nursery,  to  see  for  herself 
that  the  two  oldest  were  properly  dressed  for  school. 
Mary,  who  had  preceded  the  rest,  was  already  in 
contention  with  the  housekeeper.  Just  as  Mrs. 
Arnold — so  we  must  now  call  her — entered  the  room, 
Mary  exclaimed,  sharply : 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  say,  I'm  going  to  wear 
this  bonnet !" 

"What's   the   trouble?"   inquired   Mrs.  Arnold, 
'    calmly. 

"  Why,  you  see,  ma'am,"  replied  the  housekeeper,  j 
"  Mary  is  bent  on  wearing  her  new,  pink  bonnet  to  i 
school,  and  I  tell  her  she  mustn't  do  it.  Her  old  '< 
one  is  good  enough." 

"  Let  me  see  the  old  one,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold.  She  ; 
t  jpoke  in  a  very  pleasant  tone  of  voice. 

A  neat,  straw  bowaet,  with  plain,  unsoiled  trim-  > 
1;  tning,  was  brought  forth  by  the  housekeeper,  who  re-  < 
'/  marked : 

"  It's  good  enough  to  wear  Sundays,  for  that  mat-  •! 
\  ter." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  is,  I'm  not  going  to  wear  it  to-    ;! 
\    day.     So  don't  bother  yourself  any  more  about  it."    \ 
"Oh,  yes,  Mary,  you  will,"  said  Mrs.  Arnold,  very    \ 
mdly,  yet  firmly. 


L 


THE   HOME    MISSION. 


"No,  I  -won't!"  was  the  quick,  resolute  answer.  And  \ 

she  gazed,  unflinchingly,  into  the  face  of  her  step-  \ 
mother. 

"  I'll  call  your  father,  my  young  lady  !    This  is  \ 

beyond  all  endurance  !"  said  the  housekeeper,  start-  1' 
ing  for  the  door. 

"  Hannah  !"    The  mild,  even  voice  of  Mrs.  Arnold  j 

checked  the  excited  housekeeper.     "  Don't  speak  of  ^ 

it  to  her  father, — I'm  sure  she  doesn't  mean  what  j; 
she  says.     She'll  think  better  of  it  in  a  moment." 

Mary  was  hardly  prepared  for  this.     Even  while  [ 

she  stood  with  unchanged  exterior,  she  felt  grateful  J. 

to  her  step-mother  for  intercepting  the  complaint  ' 

about  to  be  made  to  her  father.     She  expected  some  I 

remark  .or  remonstrance  from  Mrs.  Arnold.     But  in  i 

this  she  was  mistaken.     The  latter,  as  if  nothing  un-  j 

pleasant  had  occurred,  turned  to  Florence,  and  after  \ 

a  light  examination  of  her  dress,  said  to  the  house-  $ 

keeper :  \ 

"  This  collar  is  too  much  soiled ;  won't  you  bring  j 
me  another?" 

"  Oh,  it's  clean  enough,"  replied  Florence,  knitting  \ 

her  brows,  and  affecting  impatience.     But,  even  as  \ 

she  spoke,  the  quick,  yet  gentle  hands  of  her  step-  j 
mother  had  removed  the  collar  from  her  neck. 

"Do  you  think  it  clean  enough  now?"  said  she,  ' 
AS  she  placed  the  soiled  collar  beside  a  fresh  one, 

which  the  housekeeper  had  brought.  ,' 

"  It  is  rather  dirty,"  replied  Florence,  smiling. 

And  now  Mrs.  Arnold  examined  other  articles  of 

her  dress,  and  had  them  changed,  re-arranged  her  ( 

hair,  and  saw  that  her  teeth  were  properly  brushed,  j 

While  this  was  progressing,  Mary  stood  a  little  apart,  j 


THE    STEP-MOTHER.  25 


a  close  observer  of  all  that  passed.  One  thing  she 
did  not  fail  to  remark,  and  that  was  the  gentle 
firmness  of  her  step-mother,  which  was  in  strong 
contrast  with  the  usual  scolding,  jerking,  and  im- 
patience of  the  housekeeper,  as  manifested  on  these 
occasions. 

By  the  time  Florence  was  ready  for  school,  Mary'a 
jtate  of  mind  had  undergone  considerable  change, 
and  she  half  regretted  the  exhibition  of  ill  temper 
and  insulting  disobedience  she  had  shown.  Yet  was 
she  in  no  way  prepared  to  yield.  To  her  surprise, 
after  Florence  was  all  ready,  her  step-mother  turned 
to  her  and  said,  in  a  mild,  cheerful  voice,  as  if  noth- 
ing unpleasant  had  occurred, 

"  Have  you  a  particular  reason  for  wishing  to 
wear  your  new  bonnet,  this  morning,  Mary  ?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  have."  The  voice  of  Mary  was 
changed  considerably,  and  her  eyes  fell  beneath  the 
mild,  but  penetrating,  gaze  of  her  step-mother. 

" May  I  ask  you  the  reason?" 

There  was  a  pause  of  some  moments ;  then  Mary 
replied : 

"  I  promised  one  of  the  girls  that  I'd  wear  it. 
She  asked  me  to.  She  wanted  to  see  it." 

"  Did  you  tell  Hannah  this  ?" 

"No,  ma'am.  It  wouldn't  have  been  any  use- 
She  never  hears  to  reason." 

"But  you'll  find  me  very  different,  Mary,"  said 
Mrs.  Arnold,  tenderly.  "  I  shall  ever  be  ready  to 
hear  reason." 

All  this  was  so  far  from  what  Mary  had  anticipat- 
ed,  that  her  mind  was  half  bewildered.  Her  step- 
mother's  clear  sight  penetrated  to  her  very  thoughts, 

3 


26  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


Taking  her  hand,  she  drew  her  gently  to  her  side. 
An  arm  was  then  pWed  'ovingly  around  her. 

"My  dear  chili!,' '--it  would  have  been  a  hard 
heart,  indeed,  that  could  have  resisted  the  influence 
of  that  voice, — "let  us  understand  each  other  in  the 
beginning.  You  seem  to  look  upon  me  as  an  enemy, 
and  yet  I  wish  to  be  the  very  best  friend  you  have 
\  in  the  world.  I  have  come  here,  not  as  an  exacting 
I;  and  overbearing  tyrant,  but  to  seek  your  good  and 
>  promote  your  happiness  in  every  possible  way.  I 
tf  will  love  you ;  and  may  I  not  expect  love  in  return  ? 
<  Surely  you  will  not  withhold  that." 

As  Mrs.  Arnold  spoke  thus,  she  felt  a  slight  £ 
quiver  in  the  hand  she  had  taken  in  her  own.  She  i 
continued  : 

"I  cannot  hope  to  fill  the  place  of  your  dear 
mother,  now  in  heaven.     Yet  even  as  she  loved  you, 
would  I  love  you,  my  child."     The  voice  of  Mrs.    <; 
Arnold  had  become   unsteady,  through   excess   of    J 
feeling.     "  As  she  bore  with  your  faults,  I  will  bear    <i 
with  them ;  as  she  rejoiced  over  every  good  aftec-    !> 
tion  born  in  your  heart,  so  will  I  rejoice." 

Outraged  by  the  conduct  of  Mary,  the  house-  !> 
keeperjfead  gone  to  Mr.  Arnold,  whom  she  found  in  ^ 
the  parlour,  and  repeated  to  him,  with  a  colouring  ^ 
of  her  own,  the  insolent  language  his  child  had  used.  •! 
The  father  hurried  up  stairs  in  a  state  of  angry  ex-  i> 
citement.  No  little  surprised  was  he,  on  entering 
the  nursery,  to  see  Mary  sobbing  on  the  breast  of 
\  her  step-mother,  whose  gentle  hands  were  softly 
I  pressed  upon  the  child's  temples,  and  whose  low, 
\  soothing  voice  was  speaking  to  her  words  of  comfort 
-  for  the  present,  and  cheerful  hope  for  the  future. 


THE   STEP-MOTIIEK.  27 


Unobserved  by  either,  Mr.  Arnold  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  softly  retired,  with  a  gush  of  thank- 
fulness in  his  heart,  that  he  had  found  for  his  child- 
ren so  true  and  good  a  mother. 

With  Mary  there  was  no  more1  trouble.  From 
that  hour,  she  came  wholly  under  the  influence  of 
her  step-mother,  learning  day  by  day,  as  she  knew 
her  better,  to  love  her  with  a  more  confiding  tender- 
ness. Wonderful  was  the  change  produced  on  the  J 
children  of  Mr.  Arnold,  in  a  single  year.  They  had, 
indeed,  found  a  mother. 

It  is  painful  to  think  how  different  would  have 
been  the  result,  had  the  step-mother  not  been  a  true 
womin.     Wise  and  good  she  was  in  her  sphere      ; 
loving  and  unselfish;  and  the  fruit  of  her  hand  was     ; 
sweet  to  the  taste,  and  beautiful  to  look  upon. 

How  few  are  like  her  !    How  few  who  assume  the    j 
position  of  step-mother, — a  position  requiring  pa- 
tience, long-suffering,  and  unflinching  self-denial, — 
are  fitted  for  the  duties  they  so  lightly  take  upon 
themselves !     Is  it  any  wonder  their  own  lives  are 
made,  at  times,  miserable,  or  that  they  mar,  by  pas- 
sion or  exacting  tyranny,  the  fair  face  of  humanity,     ;> 
in  the  children  committed  to  their  care  ?     S^h  lose 
their  reward. 


POWER  OF  KINDNESS. 


"TOM!     Here  !"  said  a  father  to  his  boy,  speak-   ] 
ing  in  tones  of  authority. 

The  lad  was  at  play.     He  looked  toward  his  fa-  \ 
+her,  but  did  not  leave  his  companions.  j 

"Do  you  hear  me,  sir?"  spoke  the  father,  move 
sternly  than  at  first. 

With  an  unhappy  face  and  reluctant  step,  the  boy 
left  his  play  and  approached  his  parent. 

"  Why  do  you  creep  along  at  a  snail's  pace?"  said 
the  latter,  angrily.  "  Come  quickly,  I  want  you.  J 
When  I  speak,  I  look  to  be  obeyed  instantly.  Here,  jj 
take  this  note  to  Mr.  Smith,  and  see  that  you  don't  < 
go  to  sleep  by  the  way.  Now  run  as  fast  as  you  !; 
can  go."  ;! 

The^feoy  took  the  note.     There  was  a  cloud  upon 
his  brow.     He  moved  away,  but  at  a  slow  pace. 

"  You,  Tom  !    Is  that  doing  as  I  ordered  ?    Is  that 
going  quickly?"  called  the  father,  when  he  saw  the    ;> 
boy  creeping  away.     "  If  you  are  not  back  in  half    jj 
an  hour,  I  will  punish  you." 

But  the  words  had  but  little  effect.     The  boy's    < 
feelings  were  hurt  by  the  unkindness  of  the  parent. 
He  experienced  a  sense  of  injustice  ;  a  consciousness 
that  wrong  had  been  done  him.     By  nature  he  was 
28 


POWER   OF   KINDNESS.  29 


like  his  father,  proud  and  stubborn ;  and  these  qua- 
lities of  his  mind  were  aroused,  and  he  indulged  in 
them,  fearless  of  consequences. 

"I  never  saw  such  a  boy,"  said  the  father,  speak- 
ing to  a  friend  who  had  observed  the  occurrence. 
"  My  words  scarcely  make  an  impressign  on  him." 

"  Kind  words  often  prove  most  powerful,"  said  the 
friend.  The  father  looked  surprised. 

"Kind  words,"  continued  the  friend,  "  are  like  the 
gentle  rain  and  the  refreshing  dews ;  but  harsh 
words  bend  and  break  like  the  angry  tempest.  The 
first  develop  and  strengthen  good  affections,  while 
the  others  sweep  over  the  heart  in  devastation,  and 
mar  and  deform  all  they  touch.  Try  him  with  kind 
words ;  they  will  prove  a  hundred  fold  more  pow- 
erful." 

The  latter  seemed  hurt  by  the  reproof;  but  it  left 
him  thoughtful.  An  hour  passed  away  ere  his  boy 
returned.  At  times  during  his  absence  he  was  angry 
at  the  delay,  and  meditated  the  infliction  of  punish 
ment.  But  the  words  of  remonstrance  were  in  his 
ears,  and  he  resolved  to  obey  them.  At  last  the  lad 
came  slowly  in  with  a  cloudy  countenance,  and  re- 
ported the  result  of  his  errand.  Having  stayed  far 
beyond  his  time,  he  looked  for  punishment,  and  was 
prepared  to  receive  it  with  an  angry  defiance.  To 
his  surprise,  after  delivering  the  message  he  had 
brought,  his  father,  instead  of  angry  reproof  and  pu- 
nishment, said  kindly,  "  Very  well,  my  son;  you  can 
go  out  to  play  again." 

The  boy  went  out,  but  was  not  happy.     He  had 
disobeyed  and  disobliged  his  father,  and  the  thought 
of  this  troubled  him.     Harsh  words  had  not  clouded 
3* 


30  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


\  his  mind  nor  aroused  a  spirit  of  reckless  anger.  In- 
<;  stead  of  joining  his  companions,  he  went  and  sat 
ij  down  by  himself,  grieving  over  his  act  of  disobedience. 
<!  As  he  thus  sat,  he  heard  his  name  called.  He  list- 
ened. 

"  Thomas,  my  son,"  said  his  father,  kindly.  The 
boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  was  almost  instantly  be- 
side his  parent. 

"  Did  you  call,  father  ?" 

"  I  did,  my  son.  Will  you  take  this  package  to 
Mr.  Long  for  me  ?" 

There  was  no  hesitation  in  the  boy's  manner.  He 
looked  pleased  at  the  thought  of  doing  his  father  a 
service,  and  reached  out  his  hand  for  the  package. 
On  receiving  it,  he  bounded  away  with  a  light  step. 
"There  is  a  power  in  kindness,"  said  the  father, 
as  he  sat  musing,  after  the  lad's  departure.     And 
even  while  he  sat  musing  over  the  incident,  the  boy 
came  back  with  a  cheerful,  happy  face,  and  said  — 
"  Can  I  do  any  thing  else  for  you,  father  ?" 
Yes,  there  is  the  power  of  kindness.  The  tempest 
of  passion  can  only  subdue,  constrain,  and  break  ; 
but  in  love  and  gentleness  there  is  the  power  of  the 
summer  rain,  the  dew,  and  the  sunshine. 


BEAE  AND  FORBEAR. 


"  DON'T  talk  to  me  in  such  a  serious  strain,  Aunt 
Hannah.  .  One  would  really  think,  from  what  you 
say,  that  James  and  I  would  quarrel  before  we,  were 
married  a  month." 

"Not  so  soon  as  that,  Maggy  dear.  Heaven 
grant  that  it  may  not  come  so  soon  as  that !  But, 
depend  upon  it,  child,  if  you  do  not  make  '  bear  and 
forbear'  your  motto,  many  months  will  not  have 
passed,  after  your  wedding-day,  without  the  occur- 
rence of  some  serious  misunderstanding  between 
you  and  your  husband." 

"  If  anybody  else  were  to  say  that  to  me,  Aunt 
Hannah,  I  would  be  very  angry." 

"For -which  you  would  be  a  very  foolish  girl. 
But  it  is  generally  the  way  that  good  advice  is 
taken,  it  being  an  article  of  which  none  think  they 
stand  in  need." 

"  But  what  in  the  world  can  there  be  for  Jan»es 
and  I  to  have  differences  about  ?  I  am  sure  that  1 
love  him  most  truly ;  and  I  am  sure  he  loves  me  as 
fondly  -as  I  love  him.  In  mutual  love  there  can  be 
no  strife — no  emulation,  except  in  the  performance 
of  good  offices.  Indeed,  aunt,  I  think  you  are  far 
too  serious." 

"  Over  the  bright  sky  bending  above  you.  Lay 
dear  niece,  I  would  not,  for  the  world,  bring  a  cloud 

31          J 


32  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

,  even  as  light  as  the  filmy,  almost  viewless  gossa-  £ 
^  mer.  But  I  know  that  clouds  must  hide  its  clear,  !; 
'i  calm,,  passionless  blue,  either  earlier  or  later  in  life. 
\  And  what  I  say  now,  is  with  the  hope  of  giving  you  \ 
\  the  prescience  required  to  avoid  some  of  the  storms  > 
{  that  may  threaten  to  break  upon  your  head." 

"Neither  cloud  nor  storm  will  ever  come  from  ;> 
jj  that  quarter  of  the  sky  from  which  you  seem  to  ] 
^  apprehend  danger." 

"  Not  if  both  you  and  James  learn  to  bear  and  j 
5  forbear  in  your  conduct  toward  each  other." 

"We  cannot  act  otherwise." 
\        "  Then  there  will  be  no  danger." 

Margaret  Percival  expressed  herself  sincerely. 
<t  She  could  not  believe  that  there  was  the  slightest 
danger  of  ^a  misunderstanding  ever  occurring  be- 
\  tween  her  and  James  Canning,  to  whom  she  was 
|  shortly  to  be  married.  The  well-meant  warning  of 
J  her  aunt,  who  had  seen  and  felt  more  in  life  than 
\  she  yet  had,  went  therefore  for  nothing. 

A  month  elapsed,  and  the  young  ami  lovely 
j|  Maggy  pledged  her  faith  at  the  altar.  As  the  bride 
;>  of  Canning,  she  felt  that  she  was  the  happiest  erea- 
\  ture  in  the  world.  Before  her  was  a  path  winding 
\  amid  green  and  floAvery  places,  and  lingering  by 
I|  the  side  of  still  waters ;  while  a  sunny  sky  bent 
\  over  all.  . 

James  Canning  was  a  young  lawyer  of  some 
talent,  and  the  possessor  of  a  good  income  inde- 
pendent  of  his  profession.  Like  others,  he  had  his 
excellencies  and  his  defects  of  character.  Natural- 
ly,  he  was  of  a  proud,  impatient  spirit,  and,  from  a 
>  shild,  had  been  restless  under  dictation.  As  an 


BEAR   AND   FORBEAR.  33 


offset  to  this,  he  was  a  man  of  strict  integrity,  gene- 
rous in  his  feelings,  and  possessed  of  a  warm  heart. 
Aunt  Hannah  had  known  him  since  he  was  a  boy, 
and  understood  his  character  thoroughly;  and  it 
was  this  knowledge  that  caused  her  to  feel  some 
concern  for  the  future  happiness  of  her  niece,  as 
well  as  to  speak  to  her  timely  words  of  caution. 
But  these  words  were  not  understood. 

"  We've  not  quarrelled  yet,  Aunt  Hannah,  for  all 
your  fears,"  said  the  young  wife,  three  or  four 
months  after  her  marriage. 

"For  which  I  am  truly  thankful,"  replied  Aunt 
\  Hannah.  "  Still,  I  would  say  now,  as  I  did  before, 
1  *  Bear  and  forbear.' ' 

"  That  is,  I  must  BEAR  every  thing  and  FORBEAR 

<  in  every  thing.     I  hardly  think  that  just,  aunt.     I 
!;   should  say  that  James  ought  to  do  a  little  of  this  as 
;!   well  as  me." 

"  Yes,  it  is  his  duty  as  well  as  yours.  But  you 
^  should  not  think  of  his  duty  to  you,  Maggy,  only  of 
j;  your  duty  to  him.  That  is  the  most  dangerous  error 
;!  into  which  you  can  fall,  and  one  that  will  be  almost 
I;  certain  to  produce  unhappiness." 

"Would  you  have  a  wife  never  think  of  her- 

<  self?" 

"  The  less  she  thinks  of  herself,  perhaps,  the  bet- 
ter; for  the  more  she  thinks  of  herself,  the  moi'e 
she  will  love  herself.  But  the  more  she  thinks  of 
her  husband,  the  more  she  will  love  him  and  seek  to 
)  make  him  happy.  The  natural  result  of  this  will 
be,  that  her  husband  will  feel  the  warmth  and  per- 
ceive the  unselfishness  of  her  love  ;  this  will  cause 
him  to  lean  toward  her  with  still  greater  tenderness, 


84  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


and  prompt  him  to  yield  to  her  what  otherwise  ho 
might  have  claimed  for  himself." 

"  Then  it  is  the  wife  who  must  act  the  generous, 
self-sacrificing  part?" 

"  If  I  could  speak  as  freely  to  James  as  I  can 
speak  to  you,  Maggy,  I  should  not  fail  to  point  out 
his  duty  of  bearing  and  forbearing,  as  plainly  as  I 
point  out  yours.  All  should  be  mutual,  of  course. 
But  this  can  never  be,  if  one  waits  for  the  other. 
If  you  see  your  duty,  it  is  for  you  to  do  it,  even  if 
he  should  fail  in  his  part. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  aunt.  I  think,  as  you 
said  just  now,  that  all  this  is  mutual." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  cannot  or  will  not  understand 
me,  Maggy,"  replied  Aunt  Hannah. 

"  I  am  sorry  too,  aunt ;  but  I  certainly  do  not. 
However,  don't,  pray,  give  yourself  any  serious 
concern  about  James  and  me.  I  assure  you  that 
we  are  getting  along  exceedingly  well ;  and  why 
this  should  not  continue  is  more  than  I  can  make 
out." 

"Well,  dear,  I  trust  that  it  may.  There  is  no 
good  reason  why  it  should  not.  You  both  have  virtues 
enough  to  counterbalance  all  defects  of  character." 

On  the  evening  of  that  very  day,  as  the  young 
couple  sat  at  the  tea-table,  James  Canning  said,  as  !> 
ais  wife  felt,  rather  unkindly,  at  the  same  time  .that  \ 
there  was  a  slight  contraction  of  his  brow — 

"You  seem  to  be  very  much  afraid  of  your  sugar,    j> 
Maggy.     I  never  get  a  cup  of  tea  or  coffee  sweet 

(enough  for  my  taste." 
"  You  must  have  a  sweet  palate.     I  am  sure  it  ia    ] 
;    like  syrup,  for  I  put  in  several  large  lumps  of  sugar,"    / 


BEAR   AND    FORBEAR. 


replied  Margaret,  speaking  in  a  slightly  offended 
tone. 

"  Taste  it,  will  you  ?"  said  Canning,  pushing  hia 
cup  across  the  table  with  an  impatient  air. 

Margaret  sipped  a  little  from  the  spoon,  and  then, 
with  an  expression  of  disgust  in  her  face,  said — 

"  Pah  !  I'd  as  lief  drink  so  much  molasses.  But 
here's  the  sugar  bowl.  Sweeten  it  to  your  taste." 

Canning  helped  himself  to  more  sugar.  As  he 
did  so  his  wife  noticed  that  his  hand  slightly  trem- 
bled, and  also  tnat  his  brow  was  drawn  down,  and 
his  lips  more  urched  than  usual. 

"It's  a  little  matter  to  get  angry  about,"  she 
thought  to  herself.  "  Things  are  coming  to  a  pretty 
pass,  if  I'm  not  to  be  allowed  to  speak." 

The  meal  was  finished  in  silence.  Margaret  felt 
in  no  humour  to  break  the  oppressive  reserve, 
although  she  would  have  been  glad,  indeed,  to  have 
heard  a  pleasant  word  from  the  lips  of  her  husband. 
As  for  Canning,  he  permitted  himself  to  brood  over 
the  words  and  manner  of  his  wife,  until  he  became 
exceedingly  fretted.  They  were  so  unkind  and  so 
uncalled  for.  The  evening  passed  unsocially.  But 
morning  found  them  both  in  a  better  state  of  mind. 
Sleep  has  a  wonderful  power  in  restoring  to  the 
mind  its  lost  balance,  and  in  calming  down  our 
blinding  passions.  During  the  day,  our  thoughts 
and  feelings,  according  with  our  natural  state,  are 
more  or  less  marked  by  the  disturbances  that  selfish 
purposes  ever  bring;  but  in  sleep,  while  the  mind 
rests  and  our  governing  ends  lie  dormant,  we  come 
into  purer  spiritual  associations,  and  the  soul,  as  well 
as  the  body,  receives  a  healthier  tone. 


36  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


The  mcrning,  therefore,  found  Canning  and  hia  i 
wife  in  better  states  of  mind.  They  were  as  kind  <! 
and  as  affectionate  as  usual  in  their  words  and  con-  ; 
duct,  although,  when  they  sat  down  to  the  breakfast  <! 
table,  they  each  experienced  a  slight  feeling  of  cold- 
ness on  being  reminded,  too  sensibly,  of  the  un- 
pleasant occurrence  of  the  previous  evening.  Mar- 
garet thought  she  would  be  sure  to  please  her 
husband  in  his  coffee,  and  therefore  put  into  his  cup 
an  extra  quantity  of  sugar,  making  it  so  very  sweet 
that  he  could  with  difficulty  swallow  it.  But  a  too 
vivid  recollection  of  what  had  taken  place  on  the 
night  before,  caused  him  to  be  silent  about  it.  The 
second  cup  was  still  sweeter.  Canning  managed  to 
sip  about  one-third  of  this,  but  his  stomach  refused 
to  take  any  more.  Noticing  that  her  husband's 
coffee,  an  article  of  which  he  was  very  fond,  stood, 
nearly  cup-full,  beside  his  plate,  after  he  had  finished 
his  breakfast,  Margaret  said — 

"  Didn't  your  coffee  suit  you  ?" 

"  It  was  very  good ;  only  a  little  too  sweet." 

"Then  why  didn't  you  say  so?"  she  returned,  in 
a  tone  that  showed  her  to  be  hurt  at  this  reaction 
upon  what  she  had  said  on  the  previous  evening. 
"  Give  me  your  cup,  and  let  me  pour  you  out  some 
more." 

"  No,  I  thank  you,  Margaret,  I  don't  care  about 
\    any  more." 

"  Yes,  you  do.     Come,  give  me  your  cup.    I  shall 
be  hurt  if  you  don't.     I'm  sure  there  is-  no  necessity 
I     for  drinking  the  coffee,  if  not  to  your  taste.     I  don't 
J    know  what's  come  over  you,  James." 

"  And  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what's  come  over 


BEAR   AND   FORBEAK.  37 


you,"  Canning  thought,  but  did  not  say.  He  haided 
up  his  cup,  as  his  wife  desired.  After  filling  it  with 
coifee,  she  handed  it  back,  and  then  reached  him 
the  sugar  and  cream. 

"  Sweeten  it  to  your  own  taste,"  she  said,  a  little 
fretfully;  "I'm  sure  I  tried  to  make  it  right." 

Canning  did  as  he  was  desired,  and  then  drank  the 
coffee,  but  it  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  that  he 
could  do  so. 

This  was  the  first  little  cloud  that  darkened  the 
sky  of  their  wedded  life  ;  and  it  did  not  fairly  pass 
Away  for  nearly  a  week.  Nor  then  did  the  days 
seem  as  bright  as  before.  The  cause  was  slight — 
very  slight — but  how  small  a  thing  will  sometimes 
make  the  heart  unhappy.  How  trifling  are  the  oc- 
currences upon  which  we  often  lay,  as  upon  a  found- 
ation, a  superstructure  of  misery !  Had  the  earn- 
estly urged  precept  of  Aunt  Hannah  been  regarded, 
— had  the  lesson — "Bear  and  Forbear,"  been  well 
learned  and  understood  by  Margaret,  this  cloud  had 
never  dimmed  the  sun  of  their  early  love.  A  plea- 
sant word,  in  answer  to  her  husband's  momentary 
impatience,  Avould  have  made  him  sensible  that  he 
had  not  spoken  with  propriety,  and  caused  him  to  be 
more  careful  in  future.  As  it  was,  both  were  more 
circumspect,  but  it  was  from  pride  instead  of  love, 
— and  more  to  protect  self  than  from  a  tender  re- 
gard for  each  other. 

Only  a  month  or  two  passed  before   there  was 

;    another  slight  collision.     It  ^made  them  both  more 

!>    unhappy  than  they  were  before.     But  the  breach 

£    was  quickly  healed.     Still  scars  remained,  and  there 

were  times  when  the   blood  flowed  into  these  cic»- 

4 


38  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


!>  trices  83  feverishly  as  to  cause  pain.  Alas  !  wounda 
•j  of  the  spirit  do  not  close  any  more  perfectly  than  do 
'/  wounds  of  the  body — the  scars  remain  forever. 

And  thus  the  weeks  and  months  went  by.  Neither 
t  of  the  married  partners  had  learned  the  true  secret 
^  of  happiness  in  their  holy  relation, — neither  of  them 
't,  felt  the  absolute  necessity  of  bearing  and  forbearing. 
J  Little  inequalities  of  character,  instead  of  being 
<  smoothed  off  by  gentle  contact,  were  suffered  to 
£  strike  against  each  other,  and  produce,  sometimes, 
deep  and  painful  wounds — healing,  too  often,  im- 
perfectly; and  too  often  remaining  as  festering 
sores. 

And  yet  Canning  and  his  wife  loved  each  other 
tenderly,  and  felt,  most  of  their  time,  that  they  were 
very  happy.  There  were  little  things  in  each  that 
each  wished  the  other  would  correct,  but  neither  felt 
the  necessity  of  self-correction. 

The  birth  of  a  child  drew  them  together  at  a 
time  when  there  was  some  danger  of  a  serious  rup- 
ture. Dear  little  Lilian,  or  "Lilly,"  as  she  was 
called,  was  a  chord  of  love  to  bind  them  in  a  closer 
union. 

"I  love  you  more  than  ever,  Maggy,"  Canning 
could  not  help  saying  to  his  wife,  as  he  kissed  first  her 
lips  and  then  the  soft  cheek  of  his  child,  a  month 
after  the  babe  was  born. 

"And  I  am  sure  I  love  you  better  than  I  did,  if 
that  were  possible,"  returned  Margaret,  looking  into 
her  husband's  face  with  a  glance  of  deep  affection.  J 

As  the  babe  grew  older  the  parent's  love  for  it 
continued  to  increase,  and,  with  this  increase,  their 
happiness.  The  chord  which  had  several  times  [ 


BEAR   AND   FORBEAR.  39 


jarred   harshly  between   them,  slept   in   profound 
peace. 

But,  after  this  sweet  calm,  the  surface  of  their 
feelings  became  again  ruffled.  One  little  incongru- 
ity of  character  after  another  showed  itself  in  both, 
and  there  was  no  genuine  spirit  of  forbearance  in 
either  of  them  to  meet  and  neutralize  any  sudden 
effervescence  of  the  mind.  Lilly  was  not  a  year  old, 
before  they  had  a  serious  misunderstanding  that  made 
them  both  unhappy  for  weeks.  It  had  its  origin  in 
a  mere  trifle,  as  such  things  usually  have.  They 
had  been  taking  tea  and  spending  an  evening  with  a 
friend,  a  widow  lady,  for  whom  Mrs.  Canning  had  a 
particular  friendship.  As  there  was  no  gentleman 
present  during  the  evening,  the  tune  passed  rather 
't  heavily  to  Canning.,  who  could  not  get  interested  in 
;!  the  conversation  of  the  two  ladies.  Toward  nine 
j;  o'clock  he  began  to  feel  restless  and  impatient,  and 
J  to  wonder  if  his  wife  would  not  soon  be  thinking 
{  about  going  home.  But  the  time  passed  wearily 
't  until  ten  o'clock,  and  still  the  conversation  between 
|  the  two  ladies  was  continued  with  undiminished  in- 
;  terest,  and,  to  all  appearance,  was  likely  to  continue 
I  until  midnight. 

Canning  at  length  became  so  restless  and  wearied 
:    that  he  said,  thinking  that  his  wife  did  not  probably 
know  how  late  it  was, — 

"  Come,  Margaret,  isn't  it  'most  time  to  go  home  ?' 
Mrs.  Canning  merely  looked  into  her  husband's 
:    face,  but  made  no  answer. 

More  earnestly  than  ever  the  ladies  now  appeared 
|  to  enter  upon  the  various  themes  for  conversation 
:  that  presented  themselves,  all  of  which  were  very 


THE   HOME   MISSION. 


frivolous  to  the  mind  of  Canning,  who  was  exceed- 
ingly chafed  by  his  wife's  indifference  to  his  sugges- 
tion about  going  home.  He  determined,  however, 
to  say  no  more  if  she  sat  all  night.  Toward  eleven 
o'clock  she  made  a  movement  to  depart,  and  after 
lingering  in  the  parlor  before  she  went  up  stairs  to 
put  on  her  things,  and  in  the  chamber  after  her 
things  were  on,  and  on  the  stairs,  in  the  passage, 
and  at  the  door,  she  finally  took  the  arm  of  her  hus- 
band and  started  for  home.  Not  a  word  was  uttered 
by  either  until  they  had  walked  the  distance  of  two 
squares,  when  Margaret,  unable  to  keep  back  what 
she  wanted  to  say  any  longer,  spoke  thus, — 

"  James,  I  will  thank  you,  another  time,  when  we 
are  spending  an  evening  out,  not  to  suggest  as  pub- 
licly  as  you  did  to-night  that  it  is  time  to  go  home. 
It's  very  bad  manners,  let  me  tell  you,  in  the  first 
place  ;  and-  in  the  second  place,  I  don't  like  it  at  all. 
I  do  not  wish  people  to  think  that  I  have  to  come 
and  go  just  at  your  beck  or  nod.  I  was  about  start- 
ing when  you  spok<*  to  me,  but  sat  an  hour  longer 
just  on  purpose." 

The  mind  of  Canting,  already  fretted,  was  set  on 
fire  by  this. 

"  You  did  ?"  he  swd. 

"  Yes,  I  did.  Ar»d  I  can  tell  you,  once  for  all, 
that  I  wish  this  to  b*  the  last  time  you  speak  to  me 
as  you  did  to-night." 

It  was  as  much  as  the  impatient  spirit  of  Canning 
could  do  to  keep  from  replying — 

"  It's  the  last  time  I  will  ever  speak  to  you  at 
all,"  and  then  leaving  her  in  the  street,  with  the  in- 
tention of  Lftvpr  sieitiig  her  again.  But  suddenly  he 


BEAR   AND    FORBEAR.  41 


thought  of  Lilly,  and  the  presence  of  the  child  in 
his  mind  kept  back  the  mad  words  from  his  lips.  Not 
one  syllable  did  he  utter  during  their  walk  home, 

>  although  his  wife  said  much  to  irritate  rather  than 
ji    soothe  him.     Nor  did  a  sentence  pass  his  lips  that 
I   night. 

At  the  breakfast  table  on  the  next  morning,  the 

>  husband  and  wife  were  coldly  polite  to  each  other. 
ff    When  the  meal  was  completed,  Canning  retired  to 
|    his  office,  and  his  wife  sought  her  chamber  to  weep. 

The  latter  half  repented  of  what  she  had  done,  but 
\    her  contrition  was  not  hearty  enough  to  prompt  to  a 
£    confession  of  her  fault.  The  fact  that  she  considered 
her  husband  to  blame,  stood  in  the  way  of  this. 

Reserve  and  coldness  marked  the  intercourse  of 
the  unhappy  couple  for  several  weeks  ;  and  then  the 
|    clouds  began  to  break,  and  there  were  occasional 
\    glimpses  of  sunshine. 

But,  before  there  was  a  clear  sky,  some  trifling 
occurrence  put  them  again  at  variance.  From  this 
time,  unhappily,  one  circumstance  after  another 
transpired  to  fret  them  with  each  other,  and  to  se- 
parate, rather  than  unite  them.  Daily,  Canning 
grew  more  cold  and  reserved,  and  his  wife  met  him 
in  a  like  uncompromising  spirit.  Even  their  lovely 
child — their  darling  blue-eyed  Lilly — with  her  sweet 
little  voice  and  smiling  face,  could  not  soften  their 
hearts  toward  each  other. 

To  add  fuel  to  this  rapidly  enkindling  fire  of  dis 
cord,  was  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Canning  was  on  parti- 
cularly intimate  terms  with  the  wife  of  a  man  toward 
whom  her  husband  entertained  a  settled  and  well- 
grounded  dislike,  and  visited  her  more  frequently 
4* 


42  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


than  she  did  any  one  of  her  friends.  He  did  not 
interfere  with  her  in  the  matter,  but  it  annoyed  aim 
to  hear  her  speak,  occasionally,  of  meeting  Mr. 
Richards  at  his  house,  and  repeating  the  polite  lan- 
guage he  used  to  her,  when  he  detested  the  character  <! 
of  Richards,  and  had  not  spoken  to  him  for  more  , 
than  a  year. 

One  day  Mrs.  Canning  expressed  a  wish  to  go  in    < 
the  evening  to  a  party. 

"  It  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  go  to-night,  or, 
indeed,  this  week,"  Canning  said.  "  I  am  engaged 
in  a  very  important  case,  which  will  come  up  for 
trial  on  Friday,  and  it  will  take  all  my  time  properly 
to  prepare  for  it.  I  shall  be  engaged  every  evening,  j 
and  perhaps  late  every  night." 

Mrs.  Canning  looked  disappointed,  and  said  she   £ 
thought  he  might  spare  her  one  evening.  ^ 

"  You  know  I  would  do  so,  Margaret,  with  plea-   5 
sure,"  he  replied,  "but  the  case  is  one  involving  too 
much  to  be  endangered  by  any  consideration.    Next 
week  AVC  will  go  to  a  party." 

When  Canning  came  home  to  tea,  he  found  his 
wife  dressed  to  go  out. 

;>        "  I'm  going  to  the  party,  for  all  you  can't  go  with 
j;    me,"  said  she 

"  Indeed  !     With  whom  are  you  going  ?" 
"  Mrs.  Richards  came  in  to  see  me  after  dinner, 
when  I  told  her  how  much  disappointed  I  was  about 
\    not  being  able  to  go  to  the  party  to-night.     She  said 
!;     that  she  and  her  husband  were  going,  and  that  it 
'•?    would  give  them  great  pleasure  to  call  for  me.     Am 
I1     I  net  fortunate?" 


BEAR   AND   FORBEAR.  -13    >' 


"But  you  are  not  going  with  Mr.  atd.  Mrs. 
Richards  ?" 

"  Indeed  I  am !     Why  not  ?" 

"  Margaret !     You  must  not  go." 

"  Must  not,  indeed  !  You  speak  in  quite  a  tone 
of  authority,  Mr.  Canning ;"  and  the  wife  drew  her- 
self up  haughtily. 

"Authority,  or  no  authority,  Margaret" — Canning 
now  spoke  calmly,  but  his  lips  were  pale — "  I  will 
never  consent  that  my  wife  shall  be  seen  in  a  public 
assembly  with  Richards.  You  know  my  opinion  of 
the  man." 

"  I  know  you  are  prejudiced  against  him,  though 
I  believe  unjustly." 

"  Madness !"  exclaimed  Canning,  thrown  off  his 
guard.  "And  this  from  you?" 

"  I  don't  see  that  you  have  any  cause  for  getting 
into  a  passion,  Mr.  Canning,"  said  his  wife,  with 
provoking  coolness.  "And,  I  must  say,  that  you 
interfere  with  my  freedom  rather  more  than  a  hus- 
band has  any  right  to  do.  But,  to  cut  this  matter 
short,  let  me  tell  you,  once  for  all,  that  I  am  going 
to  the  assembly  to-night  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Richards. 
Having  promised  to  do  so,  I  mean  to  keep  my 
promise." 

'•  Margaret,  I  positively  forbid  your  going  !"  said 
Canning,  in  much  excitement. 

"  I  deny  your  right  to  command  me !  In  con- 
senting to  become  your  wife,  I  did  not  make  myself 
your  slave ;  although  it  is  clear  from  this,  and  other 
things  that  have  occurred  since  our  marriage,  that 
YOU  consider  me  as  occupying  that  position." 

"  Then  it  is  your  intention  to  go  with  this  man  ?" 


44  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


said  Canning,  again  speaking  in  a  calm  but  deep 
voice. 

"  Certainly  it  is." 

"  Very  well.  I  will  not  make  any  threat  of  what 
I  will  do,  Margaret.  But  this  I  can  assure  you, 
that  lightly  as  you  may  think  of  this  matter,  if  per- 
severed in,  it  will  cause  you  more  sorrow  than  you 
have  ever  known.  Go!  Go  against  my  wish — 
against  my  command,  if  you  will  have  it  so — and 
when  you  feel  the  consequence,  lay  the  blame  upon 
no  one  but  yourself.  And  now  let  me  say  to  you, 
Margaret,  that  your  conduct  as  a  wife  has  tended 
rather  to  estrange  your  husband's  heart  from  you 
than  to  win  his  love.  I  say  this  now,  because  I  may 
not  have " 

"  James  !  It  is  folly  for  you  to  talk  to  me  after  !; 
that  fashion,"  exclaimed  Margaret,  breaking  in  upon  > 
him.  «  I " 

But  before  she  could  finish  the  sentence,  Canning  j 
had  left  the  room,  closing  the  door  hard  after  him.  £ 

Just  an  hour  from  this  time,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  llicharda  \ 
called  in  their  carriage  for  Mrs.  Canning,  who  went  } 
with  them  to  the  assembly.  An  hour  was  a  long  ! 
period  for  reflection,  and  ought  to  have  afforded  ; 
sufficient  time  for  the  wife  of  Canning  to  come  to  a  ( 
wiser  determination  than  that  from  which  she  acted,  j 

Not  half  a  dozen  revolutions  of  the  carriage  whcela 
had  been  made,  however,  before  Margaret  repented 
of  what  she  had  done.  But  it  was  now  too  late. 
The  pleasure  of  the  entertainment  passed  before  her, 
but  it  found  no  response  in  her  breast.  She  saw 
little  but  the  pale,  compressed  lip  and  knit  brow  of 
her  husband,  and  heard  little  but  his  word  of  disap 


BEAR   AND    FORBEAR.  45 


i 


proval.  Oh !  how  she  did  long  for  the  confused 
pageant  that  was  moving  before  her,  and  the  dis- 
cordant mingling  of  voices  and  instruments,  to  pass 
away,  that  she  might  return  and  tell  him  that  she 
repented  of  all  that  she  had  done. 

At  last  the  assembly  broke  up,  and  she  was  free 
to  go  back  again  to  the  home  that  had  not,  alas ! 
proved  as  pleasant  a  spot  to  her  as  her  imagination 
had  once  pictured  it. 

"And  that  it  has  not  been  so,"  she  murmured  to 
herself,  "he  has  not  been  all  to  blame." 

On  being  left  at  the  door,  Mrs.  Canning  rang  the 
bell  impatiently.  As  soon  as  admitted,  she  flew  up 
stairs  to  meet  her  husband,  intending  to  confess  her 
error,  and  beg  him  earnestly  to  forgive  her  for  having 
acted  so  directly  in  opposition  to  his  wishes.  But 
she  did  not  find  him  in  the  chamber.  Throwing  off 
her  bonnet  and  shawl,  she  went  down  into  the  par- 
lours, but  found  all  dark  there. 

"  Where  is  Mr.  Canning  ?"  she  asked  of  a  servant. 

"  He  went  away  about  ten  o'clock,  and  has  not 
returned  yet,"  was  replied. 

This  intelligence  caused  Mrs.  Canning  to  lean 
hard  on  the  stair-railing  for  support.  She  felt  in 
an  instant  weak  almost  as  an  infant. 

Without  further  question,  she  went  back  to  her 
chamber,  and  looked  about  fearfully  on  bureaus  and 
tables  for  a  letter  addressed  to  her  in  her  husband's 
handwriting.  But  nothing  of  this  met  her  eye. 
Then  she  sat  down  to  await  her  husband's  return. 
But  she  waited  long.  Daylight  found  her  an  anx- 
ious watcher ;  he  was  still  away. 

The  anguisli  of  raind  experienced  during  that  un«    j 


46  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


happy  night,  it  would  be  vain  for  us  to  attempt  to 
picture.  In  the  morning,  on  descending  to  the 
parlour,  she  found  on  one  of  the  pier-tables  a  letter 
bearing  her  name.  She  broke  the  seal  tremblingly, 
It  did  not  contain  many  words,  but  they  fell  upon 
her  heart  with  an  icy  coldness. 

"  MARGARET  :  Your  conduct  to-night  has  decided 
>  me  to  separate  myself  from  a  woman  who  I  feel 
neither  truly  loves  nor  respects  me.  The  issue 
which  I  have  for  some  time  dreaded  has  come.  It 
is  better  for  us  to  part  than  to  live  in  open  discord. 
I  shall  arrange  every  thing  for  your  comfortable 
support,  and  then  leave  the  city,  perhaps  for  ever. 
You  need  not  tell  our  child  that  her  father  lives.  I 
would  rather  she  would  think  him  dead  than  at  vari- 
ance with  her  mother. 

"JAMES  CANNING.' 

These  were  the  words.  Their  effect  was  paralyz- 
ing. Mrs.  Canning  had  presence  of  mind  enough 
to  crush  the  fatal  letter  into  her  bosom,  and  strength 
enough  to  take  her  back  to  her  chamber.  When 
there,  she  sunk  powerless  upon  her  bed,  and  remained 
throughout  the  day  too  weak  in  both  body  and  mind 
to  rise  or  think.  She  could  do  little  else  but  feel. 

Five  years  from  the  day  of  that  unhappy  separa- 
tion, we  find  Mrs.  Canning  in  the  unobtrusive  home 
of  Aunt  Hannah,  who  took  the  almost  heart-broken 
wife  into  the  bosom  of  her  own  family,  after  the 
passage  of  nearly  a  year  had  made  her  almost  hope- 
less of  ever  seeing  him  again.  No  one  knew  where 
he  was.  Only  once  did  Margaret  hear  from  him, 


BEAK   AND   FORBEAR.  '     47 


;    and  that  -was  on  the  third  day  after  he  had  parted 
from  her,  when  he  appeared  in  the  court-room,  and 
made  a  most  powerful  argument  in  favour  of  the  client 
whose  important  case  had  prevented  his  going  with 
I    his  wife  to  the  assembly.     After  that  he  disappeared, 
jj    and  no  one  could  tell  aught  of  him.     A  liberal  an- 
il   nuity  had  been  settled  upon  his  wife,  and  the  neces- 
<    sary  papers  to  enable  her  to  claim  it  transmitted  to 
'>,    her  under  a  blank  envelope. 

Five  years  had  changed  Margaret  sadly.     The 

high-spirited,  blooming,  happy  woman,  was  now  a 

$    meek,  quiet,  pale-faced  sufferer.     Lilly  had  grown 

;    finely,  all  unconscious  of  her  mother's  suffering,  and 

;    was  a  very  beautiful  child.     She  attracted  the  notice 


"Aunt  Hannah,"  said  Margaret,  one  day  aftei 


of  every  one. 

this  long,  long  period  of  suffering,  "  I  have  what  you 
will  call  a  strange  idea  in  my  mind.  It  has  been 
visiting  me  for  weeks,  and  now  I  feel  much  inclined 
\  to  act  from  its  dictates.  You  know  that  Mr.  and 
\  Mrs.  Edwards  are  going  to  Paris  next  month.  Ever 
since  Mrs.  Edwards  mentioned  it  to  me,  I  have  felt 
a  desire  to  go  with  them.  I  don't  know  why,  but 
so  it  is.  I  think  it  would  do  me  good  to  go  to  Paris 
and  spend  a  few  months  there.  When  a  young  girl, 
I  always  had  a  great  desire  to  see  London  and  Paris; 
and  this  desire  is  again  in  my  mind." 

"I  would  go,  then,"  said  Aunt  Hannah,  who 
thought  favourably  of  any  thing  likely  to  divert  the 
mird  of  her  niece  from  the  brooding  melancholy  in 
which  it  was  shrouded. 

To  Paris  Mrs.  Canning  went,  accompanied  by  her 
tittle  daughter,  who  was  the  favourite  of  every  one 


n 


48  I1IE   HOME    MISSION. 


on  board  the  steimer  in  which  they  sailed.  In  this 
gay  city,  however,  she  did  not  attain  as  much  relief 
of  mind  as  she  had  anticipated.  She  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  take  interest  in  any  thing,  and  soon 
began  to  long  .for  the  time  to  come  when  she  could 
go  back  to  the  home  and  heart  of  her  good  Aunt 
Hannah.  The  greatest  pleasure  she  took  was  in 
going  with  Lilly  to  the  Gardens  of  the  Tuileries, 
and  amid  the  crowd  there  to  feel  alone  with  nature 
in  some  of  her  most  beautiful  aspects.  Lilly  was 
always  delighted  to  get  there,  and  never  failed  to 
bring  something  in  her  pocket  for  the  pure  white 
swans  that  floated  so  gracefully  in  the  marble  basiu 
into  which  the  water  dashed  cool  and  sparkling  from 
beautiful  fountains. 

One  day,  while  the  child  was  playing  at  a  short 
distance  from  her  mother,  a  man  seated  beside  a 
bronze  statue,  over  which  drooped  a  large  orange 
tree,  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her  admiringly,  as  hun- 
dreds of  others  had  done.  Presently  she  came 
up  and  stood  close  to  him,  looking  up  into  the 
face  of  the  statue.  The  man  said  something  to 
her  in  French,  but  Lilly  only  smiled  and  shook  her 
head. 

"  What  is  your  name,  dear  ?"  he  then  said  in 
English. 

"  Lilly,"  replied  the  child. 

A  quick  change  passed  over  the  man's  face. 
With  much  more  interest  in  his  voice,  he  said — 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?     In  London  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  sir ;  I  live  in  America." 

"  What  is  your  name  besides  Lilly  ?" 
•    "  Lilly  Canning,  sir." 


1 

BEAR   AND    FORBEAR  49 


The  man  now  became  strongly  agitated.  But  he 
contended  vigorously  with  his  feelings. 

"  Where  is  your  mother,  dear  ?"  he  asked,  taking 
her  hand  as  he  spoke,  and  gently  pressing  it  between 
his  own. 

"  She  is  here,  sir,"  returned  Lilly,  looking  in- 
quiringly into  the  man's  face. 

"Here!" 

"Yes,  sir.     We  come  here  every  day." 

"Where  is  your  mother  now?" 

"Just  on  the  other  side  of  the  fountain.  You 
'.  can't  see  her  for  the  lime-tree." 

"  Is  your  father  here,  also  ?"  continued  the  man. 

"No,  I  don't  know  where  my  father  is." 
'/        "Is  he  dead?" 

<!  "  No,  sir ;  mother  says  he  is  not  dead,  and  that 
<;  she  hopes  he  will  come  home  soon.  Oh  !  I  wish  he 
\  would  come  home.  We  would  all  love  him  so  !" 

The  man  rose  up  quickly,  and  turning  from  the 
|  child,  walked  hurriedly  away.  Lilly  looked  after 
I  him  for  a  moment  or  two,  and  then  ran  back  to  her 
\  mother. 

On  the  next  day  Lilly  saw  the  same  man  sitting 
|    under  the  bronze  statue.     He  beckoned  to  her,  and 
she  went  to  him. 

;<  How  long  have  you  been  in  Paris,  dear  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  A  good  many  weeks,"  she  replied. 

"  Are  you  going  to  stay  much  longer  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.     But  mother  wants  to  go  home." 


"  Do  you  like  to  live  in  Paris  ?" 
"No,    sir.     I   would  rather   live  at  home  with     \ 
mother  and  Aunt  Hannah." 


60  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  You  live  with  Aunt  Hannah,  then  ?' 

"Yes,  sir.     Do  you  know  Aunt  Hannah?"  and 
the  child   looked  up    wonderingly  into  the  man's    | 
face. 

"  I  used  to  know  her,"  he  replied. 

Just  then  Lilly  heard  her  mother  calling  her,  and 
she  started  and  ran  away  in  the  direction  from  j> 
which  the  voice  came.  The  man's  face  grew  slightly  > 
pale,  and  he  was  evidently  much  agitated.  As  he  ;> 
had  done  on  the  evening  previous,  he  rose  up  hastily  <; 
and  walked  away.  But  in  a  short  time  he  returned,  < 
and  appeared  to  be  carefully  looking  about  for  some  •! 
one.  At  length  he  caught  sight  of  Lilly's  mother.  ,s 
She  was  sitting  with  her  eyes  upon  the  ground,  the  ; 
child  leaning  upon  her,  and  looking  into  her  face,  ^ 
which  he  saw  was  thin  and  pale,  and  overspread  ; 
with  a  hue  of  sadness.  Only  for  a  few  moments  £ 
did  he  thus  gaze  upon  her,  and  then  he  turned  and  4 
walked  hurriedly  from  the  garden. 

Mrs.  Canning  sat  alone  with  her  child  that  even-  ^ 
ing,  in  the  handsomely-furnished  apartments  she  '•' 
had  hired  on  arriving  in  Paris.  ;> 

"  He  told  you  that  he  knew  Aunt  Hannah  ?"  she 
said,  rousing  up  from  a  state  of  deep  thought. 

"  Yes,  ma.     He  said  he  used  to  know  her." 

"  I  wonder" 

A  servant  opened  the  door,  and  said  that  a  gen 
lleman  wished  to  see  Mrs.  Canning. 

"Tell  him  to  walk  in,"  the  mother  of  Lilly  had 
just  power  to  say.  In  breathless  suspense  she 
waited  for  the  space  of  a  few  seconds,  when  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  Lilly  in  the  Gardens  of  the 
Tuileries  entered  *nd  closed  the  door  after  him. 


BEAR.AXD   FORBEAR.  51 


Mrs.  Canning  raised  her  eyes  to  his  face.  It  waa 
her  husband !  She  did  not  cry  out  nor  spring  for- 
ward. She  had  not  the  power  to  do  either. 

"  That's  him  now,  mother  !"  exclaimed  Lilly. 

"  It's  your  father !"  said  Mrs.  Canning,  in  a 
deeply  breathed  whisper. 

The  child  sprung  toward  him  with  a  quick  bound, 
and  was  instantly  clasped  in  his  arms. 

"  Lilly,  dear  Lilly  !"  he  sobbed,  pressing  his  lips 
upon  her  brow  and  cheeks.  "  Yes !  I  am  your 
father !" 

The  wife  and  mother  sat  motionless  and  tearless, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  face  of  her  husband. 
After  a  few  passionate  embraces,  Canning  drew  the 
child's  arms  from  about  his  neck,  and  setting  her 
down  upon  the  floor,  advanced  slowly  toward  his 
wife.  Her  eyes  were  still  tearless,  but  large  drops 
I  were  rolling  over  his  face. 

"  Margaret !"    he  said,  uttering  her  name  with 
s    great  tenderness. 

j;  He  was  by  her  side  in  time  to  receive  her  upon 
j>  his  bosom,  as  she  sunk  forward  in  a  wild  passion  of 
I;  tears. 

All  was  reconciled.  The  desolate  hearts  were 
again  peopled  with  living  affections.  The  arid 
waste  smiled  in  greenness  and  beauty. 

In  their  old  home,  bound  by  threefold  cords  of 
love,  they  now  think  only  of  the  past  as  a  severe 
lesson  by  which  they  have  been  taught  the  heavenly 
virtue  of  forbearance.  Five  years  of  intense  suf- 
fering changed  them  both,  and  left  marks  that  after 
years  can  never  efface.  But  selfish  impatience  and 
pride  were  all  subdued,  and  their  hearts  melted  into 


f 

?     52  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

\    each  other,  until  they  became  almost  like  one  heart. 

!  Those  who  meet  them  now,  and  observe  the  deep, 
but  unobtrusive  affection  with  which  they  regard 
each  other,  would  never  imagine,  did  they  not  know 
their  previous  history,  that  love,  during  one  period 
of  that  married  life,  had  been  so  long  and  so  totally 
eclipsed. 


THE  SOCIAL  SERPENT. 


A  LADY,  whom  we  will  call  Mrs.  Harding,  touched 
with  the  destitute  condition  of  a  poor,  sick  widow, 
who  had  three  small  children,  determined,  from  an 
impulse  of  true  humanity,  to  awaken,  if  possible,  in 
the  minds  of  some  friends  and  neighbours,  an  inte- 
rest in  her  favour.  She  made  a  few  calls,  one  morn- 
ing, with  this  end  in  view,  and  was  gratified  to  find 

!  that  her  appeal  made  a  favourable  impression.  The 
first  lady  whom  she  saw,  a  Mrs.  Miller,  promised  to 

\  select  from  her  own  and  children's  wardrobe  a  num- 
ber of  cast-off  garments  for  the  widow,  and  to  aid  her 

\  in  other  respects,  at  the  same  time  asking  Mrs.  Har- 
ding to  call  in  on  the  next  day,  when  she  would  be 
able  to  let  her  know  what  she  could  do. 

Pleased  with  her  reception,  and  encouraged  to 
seek  further  aid  for  the  widow,  Mrs.  Harding  with- 
drew and  t\x)k  her  way  to  the  house  of  another  ac- 
quaintance. Scarcely  had  she  left,  when  a  lady, 


* 


THE   SOCIAL   SERPENT.  53 


named  Little,  dropped  in  to  see  Mrs.  Miller.     To 
her  the  latter  said,  soon  after  her  entrance : 

"I've  been  very  much  interested  in  the  case  of  a 
poor  widow  this  morning.  She  is  sick,  with  three 
little  children  dependent  on  her,  and  destitute  of 
almost  every  thing.  Mrs.  Harding  was  telling  me 
about  it." 

"Mrs.  Harding!"  The  visitor's  countenance 
changed,  and  she  looked  unutterable  things.  "I 
wonder!"  she  added,  in  well  assumed  surprise,  and 
then  was  silent. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Mrs.  Harding  ?"  asked 
Mrs.  Miller. 

"I  should  think,"  said  Mrs.  Little,  "that  she  was 
in  nice  business,  running  around,  gossiping  about 
indigent  widows,  when  some  of  her  own  relatives 
are  so  poor  they  can  hardly  keep  soul  and  body  to- 
gether." 

"  Is  this  really  so  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Miller. 
"  Certainly  it  is.     I  had  it  from  my  chambermaid, 
^    whose  sister  is  cook  next  door  to  where  a  cousin  of 
5    Mrs.  Harding's  lives,  and  she  says  they  are,  one  half 
£    of  their  time,  she  really  believes,  in  a  starving  con- 
$    dition." 
t        *  But  does  Mrs.  Harding  know  this  ?" 

"  She  ought  to  know  it,  for  she  goes  there  some- 
times, I  hear." 

"  She  didn't  come  merely  to  gossip  about  the  poor 
widow,"  said  Mrs.  Miller.  "  Her  errand  was  to  ob- 
tain something  to  relieve  her  necessities." 

"Did  you  give  her  anything  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Little. 
"  No ;  but  I  told  her  to  call  and  see  me  to-morrow, 
I  would  have  something  for  her." 
6* 


64  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


"  Do  you  want  to  know  my  opinion  of  this  matter  V"  s 
said  Mrs.  Little,  drawing  herself  up,  and  assuming  a  ^ 
very  important  air. 

"  What  is  your  opinion  ?" 

"  Why.  that  there  is  no  poor  widow  in  the  case  at  \ 
all." 

"Mrs.  Little!" 

"  You  needn't  look  surprised.  I'm  in  earnest.  I  < 
never  had  much  faith  in  Mrs.  Harding,  at  the  best."  \ 

"I  am  surprised.  If  there  was  no  poor  widow  in  £ 
the  case,  what  did  she  want  with  charity  ?" 

"  She  has  poor  relations  of  her  own,  for  whom,  ]    •; 
suppose,  she's  ashamed  to  beg.  So  you  see  my  mean- 
ing now." 

"You  surely  wrong  her." 

"  Don't  believe  a  word  of  it.  At  any  rate,  take 
my  advice,  and  be  the  almoner  of  your  own  bounty. 
When  Mrs.  Harding  comes  again,  ask  her  the  name 
of  this  poor  widow,  and  where  she  resides.  If  she 
gives  you  a  name  and  residence,  go  and  see  for 
yourself." 

"  I  will  act  on  your  suggestion,"  said  Mrs.  Miller. 
"  Though  I  can  hardly  make  up  my  mind  to  think  so 
meanly  of  Mrs.  Harding ;  still,  from  the  impression 
your  words  produce,  I  deem  it  only  prudent  to  be,- 
as  you  term  it,  the  almoner  of  my  own  bounty." 

The  next  lady  upon  whom  Mrs.  Harding  called, 
was  a  Mrs.  Johns,  and  in  her  mind  she  succeeded  in 
also  awakening  an  interest  for  the,poor  widow. 

"  Call  and  see  me  to-morrow,"  said  Mrs.  Johns, 
"and  I'll  have  something  for  you." 

Not  long  after  Mrs.  Harding's  departure,  Mrs. 
Little  called,  in  her  round  of  gossipping  visits,  and 


THE   SOCIAL   SERPENT.  55 


to  her  Mrs.  Johns  mentioned  the  case  of  the  poor 
widow,  that  matter  being,  for  the  time,  uppermost  in 
her  thoughts. 

"Mrs.  Harding's  poor  widow,  I  suppose,"  said 
Mrs.  Little,  in  a  half-sneering,  half-malicious  tone 
of  voice. 

Mrs.  Johns  looked  surprised,  as  a  matter  of  course. 
"What  do  you  mea'n  ?"  she  asked. 
"  Oh,  nothing,  much.    Only  I've  heard  of  this  des- 
titute widow  before." 
"  You  have  ?" 

"Yes,  and  between  ourselves," — the  voice  of  Mrs. 
Little  became  low  and  confidential — "it's  the  opin- 
j;    ion  of  Mrs.  Miller  and  myself,  that  there  is  no  poor 
vridow  in  the  case." 

"Mrs.  Little!     You  astonish  me !     No  poor  widow 
in  the  case  !     I  can't  understand  this.     Mrs.  Hard- 
<{    ing  was  very  clear  in  her  statement.     She  described    ! 
\    the  widow's  condition,  and  very  much  excited  my 
(    sympathies.     What  object  can  she  have  in  view  ?" 

"Mrs.  Miller  and  I  think,"  said  the  visitor,  "and  '< 
with  good  reason,  that  this  poor  widow  is  only  put  !> 
forward  as  a  cover."  |j 

"As  a  cover  to  what?" 

I        "  To  some  charities  that  she  has  reasons  of  her    ^ 
^    own  for  not  wishing  to  make  public." 

"  Still  in  the  dark.     Speak  out  more  plainly." 
f<         "  Plainly,  then,  Mrs.  Johns,  we  have  good  reasons 
s    for  believing,  Mrs.  Miller  and  I,  that  she  is  begging 
£    for  some  of  her  own  poor  relations.     Mrs.  Miller  is 
\    going  to  see  if  she  can  find  the  widow." 

"Indeed!  That's  another  matter  altogether.  I 
promised  to  do  something  in  the  case,  but  shall  now 


56  THE  HOME  MISSION. 


*-"--„-_• 


decline.     I  couldn't  have  believed  such  a  thing  of 
Mrs.  Harding !     But  so  it  is ;  you  never  know  p*o-    : 
pie  until  you  find  them  out." 

"No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Johns.  You  never  spoke  a  i 
truer  word  in  your  life,"  replied  Mrs.  Little,  empha-  i 
tically. 

On  the  day  following,  after  seeing  the  poor  widow,    : 
ministering  to  some  of  her  immediate  wants,  and  en-    • 
couraging  her  to  expect  more  substantial  relief,  Mrs.    : 
Harding  called,  as  she  had  promised  to  do,  on  Mra. 
Miller.     A  little  to  her  surprise,  that  lady  received 
her  with  unusual  coldness ;  and  yet,  plainly,  with  an 
effort  to  seem  friendly. 

"  You  have  called  about  the  poor  widow  you  spoke  > 
of  yesterday  ?"  said  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  Such  is  the  object  of  my  present  visit." 

"What  is  her  name?" 

"Mrs.  Aitken." 

"Where  did  you  say  she  lived?" 

The  residence  wa's  promptly  given. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  said  Mrs.  Miller,  slightly  ; 
colouring,  and  with  some  embarrassment,  "  that  I  i 
would  call  in  and  see  this  poor  woman  myself." 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  was  the  earnest  reply  of  Mrs. 
Harding.    "  I  am  sure,  if  you  do  so,  all  your  sympa-    j 
thies  will  be  excited  in  her  favour."- 

As  Mrs.  Harding  said  this,  she  arose,  and  with  a    j 
manner  that  showed  her  feelings  to  be  hurt,  as  well  as   ; 
mortified,  bade  Mrs.  Miller  a  formal  good-morning,    \ 
and  retired.     Her  next  call  was  upon  Mrs.  Johns*    : 
Much  to  her  surprise,  her  reception  here  was  quite 
as  cold ;  in  fact,  so  cold,  that  she  did  not  even  refer 
to  the  object  of  her  visit,  and  Mrs.  Johns  let  her  go 


THE   SOCIAL  SERPENT. 


away  •without  calling  attention  to  it  herself.  So  af- 
fected was  she  by  the  singular,  and  to  her  unaccount- 
able change  in  the  manner  of  these  ladies,  that  Mrs. 
Harding  had  no  heart  to  call  upon  two  others,  who 
had  promised  to  do  something  for  the  widow,  but 
went  home  disappointed,  and  suffering  from  a  trou- 
bled and  depressed  state  of  feeling. 

So  far  as  worldly  goods  were  concerned,  Mrs. 
Harding  could  not  boast  very  large  possessions.  She 
was  herself  a  widow ;  and  her  income,  while  it  sufficed, 
with  economy,  to  supply  the  moderate  wants  of  her 
family,  left  her  but  little  for  luxuries,  the  gratifica- 
tion of  taste,  or  the  pleasures  of  benevolence.  Quick 
to  feel  the  wants  of  the  needy,  no  instance  of  desti- 
tution came  under  her  observation  that  she  did  not 
make  some  effort  toward  procuring  relief. 

What  now  was  to  be  done  ?  She  had  excited  the 
sick  woman's  hopes — had  promised  that  her  imme- 
diate wants>  and  those  of  her  children,  should  be 
supplied.  From  her  own  means,  without  great  self- 
denial,  this  could  not  be  effected.  True,  Mrs.  Miller 
and  Mrs.  Johns  had  both  promised  to  call  upon  the 
poor  widow,  and,  in  person,  administer  relief.  But 
Mrs.  Harding  did  not  place  much  reliance  on  this ; 
for  something  in  the  manner  of  both  ladies  impressed 
her  with  the  idea  that  their  promise  merely  covered 
a  wish  to  recede  from  their  first  benevolent  inten- 
tions. 

"  Something  must  be  done,"  said  she,  musingly. 
And  then  she  set  herself  earnestly  to  the  work  of 
devising  ways  and  means.  Where  there  is  a  will 
there  is  a  'W'xy.  No  saying  was  ever  truer  than  this. 


68  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


It  was,  perhaps,  a  week  later,  that  Mrs.  Little 
eallbd  again  upon  Mrs.  Miller. 

"  What  of  Mrs.  Harding's  poor  \udow?"  said  the 
former,  after  some  ill-natured  gossip  about  a  mutual 
friend. 

"  Oh,  I  declare !  I've  never  thought  of  the  woman 
since,"  icplied  Mrs.  Miller,  in  a  tone  of  self-condem- 
nation. *'  And  I  promised  Mrs.  Harding  that  I  would 
see  her.  I  really  blame  myself." 

"No  great  harm  done,  I  presume,"  said  Mrs. 
Little. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that.  I'm  hardly  prepared 
to  think  so  meanly  of  Mrs.  Harding  as  you  do.  At 
any  rate,  I'm  going  this  day  to  redeem  my  promise." 

"What  promise?" 

"  The  promise  I  made  Mrs.  Harding,  that  I  would 
dee  the  woman  she  spoke  of,  and  relieve  her,  if  in 
need." 

"  You'll  have  all  your  trouble  for  nothing." 

"  No  matter,  I'll  clear  my  conscience,  and  that  is 
something.  Come,  wont  you  go  with  me  ?" 

Mrs.  Little  declined  the  invitation  at  first ;  but, 
strongly  urged  by  Mrs.  Miller,  she  finally  consented. 
So  the  two  ladies  forthwith  took  their  way  toward 
the  neighbourhood  in  which  Mrs.  Harding  had  said 
the  needy  woman  lived.  They  were  within  a  few  doors 
of  the  house,  which  had  been  very  minutely  described 
by  Mrs.  Harding,  when  they  met  Mrs.  Johns. 

"Ah '."said  the  latter,  with  animation,  "just  the 
person,  of  all  others,  I  most  wished  to  see.  How 
could  you,  Mrs.  Miller,  so  greatly  wrong  Mrs.  Har- 
ding?" 

"  Me  wrong  her,  Mrs.  Johns  ?    I  don't  understand 


THE   SOCIAL   SERPENT.  59 


you."  And  Mrs.  Miller  looked  considerably  asto- 
nished. 

"  Mrs.  Little  informed  me  that  you  had  good  rea- 
sons for  believing  all  this  story  about  a  poor  widow 
to  be  a  mere  subterfuge,  got  up  to  cover  some  doings 
of  her  own  that  Mrs.  Harding  was  ashamed  to  bring 
to  the  light." 

"  Mrs.  Little !"  There  was  profound  astonish- 
ment in  the  tones  of  Mrs.  Miller,  and  her  eyes  had 
in  them  such  an  indignant  light,  as  she  fixed  them 
upon  her  companion,  that  the  latter  quailed  under 
her  gaze. 

"Acting  from  this  impression,"  resumed  Mrs. 
Johns,  "I  declined  placing  at  her  disposal  the  means 
of  relief  promised;  but,  instead,  told  her  that  I 
would  myself  see  the  needy  person  for  whom  she 
asked  aid.  This  I  have,  until  now,  neglected  to  do  ; 
and  this  neglect,  or  indifference  I  might  rather  call  it, 
has  arisen  from  a  belief  that  there  was  no  poor  widow 
in  the  case.  Wrong  has  been  done,  Mrs.  Miller, 
great  Avrong !  How  could  you  have  imagined  such 
baseness  of  Mrs.  Harding  ?" 

"  And  there  is  a  poor,  sick  widow,  in  great  need  ?" 
said  Mrs.  Miller,  now  speaking  calmly,  and  with  re- 
gained self-possession. 

"There  is  a  sick  widow,'  replied  Mrs.  Johns,  "but 
not  at  prese-nt  in  great  need.  Mrs.  Harding  has 
supplied  immediate  wants." 

"Well,  Mrs.  Little!"  Mrs.  Miller  again  turned 
her  eyes,  searchingly,  upon  her  companion. 

"  I — I — thought  so.  It  was  my  impression — I  had 
good  reason  for — I — I"  stammered  Mrs.  Little. 

"  It  should  have  been  enough  for  you  to  check  a 


60  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


benevolent  impulse  in  my  case  by  your  unfounded 
suggestions.  Not  content  with  this,  however,  you 
must  use  my  name  in  still  further  spreading  your 
unjust  suspicions,  and  actually  make  me  the  author 
of  charges  against  a  noble-minded  woman,  which  had 
heir  origin  in  your  own  evil  thoughts." 

"I  will  not  bear  such  language  !"  said  the  offended 
Mrs.  Little,  indignantly ;  and  turning  with  an  angry 
toss  of  the  head,  she  left  the  ladies  to  their  own  re- 
flections. 

"  I  am  taught  one  good  lesson  from  this  circum- 
stance," said  Mrs.  Miller,  as  they  walked  away ;  "  and 
that  is,  never  to  even  seem  to  have  my  good  opinion 
of  another  affected  by  the  allegations  and  surmises 
of  a  social  gossip.  Such  people  always  suppose  the 
worst,  and  readily  pervert  the  most  unselfish  actions 
into  moral  offences.  The  harm  they  do  is  incalcu- 
lable." 

"And,  as  in  the  present  case,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Johns,  "  they  make  others  responsible  for  their  base 
suggestions.  Had  Mrs.  Little  not  coupled  your  name 
with  the  implied  charges  against  Mrs.  Harding,  my 
mind  would  not  have  been  poisoned  against  her." 

"  While  not  a  breath  of  suspicion  had  ever  crossed 
mine  until  Mrs.  Little  came  in,  and  wantonly  inter- 
cepted the  stream  of  benevolence  about  to  flow  forth 
to  a  needy,  and,  I  doubt  not,  most  worthy  object." 

"  We  have  made  of  her  an  enemy.  At  least  you 
have  ;  for  you  spoke  to  her  with  smarting  plainness," 
said  Mrs.  Johns. 

"  Better  the  enmity  of  such  than  their  friendship," 
replied  Mrs.  Miller.  "  Their  words  of  detraction 
cannot  harm  so  much  as  the  poison  of  evil  thoughts 


THE   YOUN&   MOTHER.  61 


toward  others,  which  they  ever  seek  to  infuse.  Your 
dearest  friend  is  not  safe  from  them,  if  she  be  pure 
as  an  angel.  Let  her  name  but  pass  your  lips,  and 
instantly  it  is  breathed  upon,  and  the  spotless  surface 
grows  dim." 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER. 


[The  following  brief  passage  is  from  our  story,  "The 
Wife,"  in  the  series  "Maiden,"  "Wife,"  and  Mother."] 

A  NEW  chord  vibrated  in  Anna's  heart,  and  the 
music  was  sweeter  far  in  her  spirit's  ear,  than  any 
before  heard.  She  was  changed.  Suddenly  she 
felt  that  she  was  a  new  creature.  Her  breast  was 
filled  with  deeper,  purer,  and  tenderer  emotions. 
She  was  a  mother  !  A  babe  had  been  born  to  her  ! 
A  sweet  pledge  of  love  lay  nestling  by  her  side,  and 
.drawing  its  life  from  her  bosom.  She  was  happy — 
how  happy  cannot  be  told.  A  mother  only  can  feel 
how  happy  she  was  on  first  realizing  the  new  emo- 
tions that  thrill  in  a  young  mother's  heart. 

As  health  gradually  returned  to  her  exhausted 
frame,  and  friends  gathered  around  her  with  warm 
congratulations,  Anna  felt  that  she  was  indeed  be- 
ginning a  new  life.  Every  hour  her  soul  seemed  to 
enlarge,  and  her  mind  to  be  filled  with  higher  and 
purer  thoughts.  Before  the  birth  of  her  babe,  she 
Buffered  much  more  than  even  her  husband  had  sup 


62  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


posed,  both  in  body  and  mind.  Her  spirits  were 
often  so  depressed  that  it  required  her  utmost  effort 
to  receive  him  with  her  accustomed  cheerfulness  at 
each  period  of  his  loved  return.  But,  living  as  she 
did  in  the  ever  active  endeavour  to  bless  others,  she 
strove  daily  and  hourly  to  rise  above  every  infirmity. 
Now,  all  was  peace  within — holy  peace.  There 
came  a  Sabbath  rest  of  deep,  interior  joy,  that  was 
sweet,  unutterably  sweet.  Body  and  spirit  entered 
into  this  rest.  No  wind  ruffled  the  still,  bright 
vaters  of  her  life.  She  was  the  same,  and  yet  not 
ehe  same. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  dear  husband  !  how  happy  I 
am,"  she  said,  a  few  weeks  after  her  babe  was  born. 
"  Nor  can  I  describe  the  different  emotions  that  per- 
Tade  my  heart.  When  our  babe  is  in  my  arms,  and 
especially  when  it  lies  at  my  bosom,  it  seems  as  if 
angels  were  near  me." 

"  And  angels  are  near  you,"  replied  her  husband. 
"  Angels  love  innocence,  and  especially  infants,  that 
are  forms  of  innocence.  They  are  present  with 
them,  and  the  mother  shares  the  blessed  company, 
for  she  loves  her  babe  with  an  unselfish  love,  and 
this  the  angels  can  perceive,  and,  through  it,  affect 
her  with  a  measure  of  their  own  happiness. 

"  How  delightful  the  thought !  Above  all,  is  the 
mother  blessed.  She  suffers  much — her  burden  is 
hard  to  bear — the  night  is  dark — but  the  morning 
that  opens  upon  her  is  the  brightest  a  human  soul 
knows  during  its  earthly  pilgrimage.  And  no  won- 
der. She  has  performed  the  highest  and  holiest  of 
offices — she  has  given  birth  to  an  immortal  being — 
and  her  reward  is  with  her." 


THE  YOUNG   MOTHER.  63 

Hartley  had  loved  his  wife  truly,  deeply,  ten- 
derly. Every  day,  he  saw  more  and  more  in  her 
to  admire.  There  was  an  order,  consistency,  and 
harmony  in  her  character  as  a  wife,  that  won  his 
admiration.  In  the  few  months  they  had  passed 
since  their  marriage,  she  had  filled  her  place  to  him, 
perfectly.  Without  seeming  to  reflect  how  she 
should  regulate  her  conduct  toward  her  husband,  in 
every  act  of  her  wedded  life  she  had  displayed  true 
wisdom,  united  with  unvarying  love.  All  this  caused 
his  heart  to  unite  itself  more  and  more  closely  with 
hers.  But  now,  that  she  held  to  him  the  twofold 
relation  of  a  wife  and  mother,  his  love  was  increased 
fourfold.  He  thought  of  her,  and  looked  upon  her, 
with  increased  tenderness. 

"  Mine,  by  a  double  tie,"  he  said,  with  a  full  reali- 
zation of  his  words,  when  he  first  pressed  his  lips 
upon  the  brow  of  his  child,  and  then,  with  a  fervour 
unfelt  before,  upon  the  lips  of  his  wife.  "  As  you 
have  been  a  good  wife,  you  will  be  a  good  mother,"  '/ 
he  added,  with  emotion. 


THE  GENTLE  WARNING. 


"Do  not  accept  the  offer,  Florence,"  said  her 
\    friend  Carlotti. 

A  shade  of  disappointment  went  over  the  face  of 
I    the  fair  girl,  who  had  just  communicated  the  pleas- 
ing fact  that  she  had  received  an  offer  of  marriage. 
"You  cannot  be  happy  as  the  wife  of  Herman 
Leland,"  added  Carlotti. 

"How  little  do  you  know  this  heart,"  returned 
the  fond  girl. 

"It  is  because  I  know  it  so  well  that  I  say  what 
I  do.     If  your  love  be  poured  out  for  Herman  Le- 
(    land,  Florence,  it  will  be  as  water  on  the  desert 
\    sand." 

"  Why  do  you  affirm  this,  Carlotti  ?" 
"A  woman  can  truly  love  only  the  moral  virtue    \ 
;    of  her  husband." 

"  I  do  not  clearly  understand  you." 
"It  is  only  genuine  goodness  of  heart  that  con-    ; 
^    joins  in  marriage." 
"Well?" 

"Just  so  far  as  selfish  and  evil  affections  find  a 
place  in  the  mind  of  either  the  husband  or  wife,  will 
be  the  ratio  of  unhappiness  in  the  marriage  state,    i 
If  there  be  any  truth  in  morals,  or  in  the  doctrine    £ 
of  affinities,  be  assured  that  this  is  so.     It  is  neither    i 
intellectual  attainments  nor  personal  attractions  that    ^ 

64 


THE   GENTLE   WARNING.  65 


< 

make  happiness  in  marriage.     Far,  very  far  from  it. 

All  depends  upon  the  quality  of  the  affections.     If 

these  be  good,  happiness  will  come  as  a  natural 

j   consequence ;  but  if  they  be  evil,  misery  will  inevit- 

<  ably  follow  so  close  a  union." 

"  Then  you  affirm  that  Mr.  Leland  is  an  evil- 
minded  man?" 

"  Neither  of  us  know  him  well  enough  tc  say  this 
positively,  Florence.  Judging  from  what  little  I 
have  seen,  I  should  call  him  a  selfish  man ;  and  no 

4  selfish  man  can  be  a  good  man,  for  selfishness  is  the 
t  basis  of  all  evil." 

"I  am   afraid  you  are  prejudiced  against  him, 
]  Carlotti." 

"If  I  have  had  any  prejudices  in  the  matter, 
t  Florence,  they  have  been  in  his  favour.  Well-edu- 
s  cated,  refined  in  his  manners,  and  variously  accom- 
<;  plished,  he  creates,  on  nearly  all  minds,  a  favourable 
^  impression.  Such  an  impression  did  I  at  first  feel. 
!j  But  the  closer  I  drew  near  to  him,  the  less  satisfied 
;>  did  I  feel  with  my  first  judgment.  On  at  least 
^  two  occasions,  I  have  heard  him  speak  lightly  of 
\  religion." 
s  "  Of  mere  cant  and  sectarianism,  perhaps." 

<  "  No ;  he  once  spoke  lightly  of  a  mother  for  mak- 

5  ing  it  a  point  to  require  all  her  children  to  repeat 
|    their  prayers  before  going  to   bed.      On   another 
}    occasion,  he  alluded  to  one  of  the  sacraments  of  the 

church  in  a  way  that  produced  an  inward  shudder. 
Fn  m  that  time,  I  have  looked  at  him  with  eyes  from 
which  the  scales  have  been  removed ;  and  the  more 
I  seek  to  penetrate  beneath  the  surface  of  his  cha- 
racter, the  more  do  I  see  what  repels  me.  Florence. 

6* 


66  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


dear,  let  me  urge  you,  as  one  who  tenderly  loves 
you  and  earnestly  desires  to  see  you  happy,  to 
weigh  the  matter  well  ere  you  assent  to  this  pro- 
posal." 

"  I'm  afraid,  Carlotti,"  said  Florence  in  reply  tc 
this,  "  that  you  have  let  small  causes  influence  your 
feelings  toward  Mr.  Leland.  We  all  speak  lightly, 
at  times,  even  on  subjects  regarded  as  sacred — not 
because  we  despise  them,  but  from  casual  thought- 
lessness. It  was,  no  doubt,  so  with  Mr.  Leland  on 
the  occasion  to  which  you  refer." 

"We  are  rarely  mistaken,  Florence,"  replied 
Carlotti,  "  as  to  the  real  sentiment  involved  in  the 
words  used  by  those  with  whom  we  converse.  Words 
are  the  expressions  of  thoughts,  and  these  the  form 
of  affections.  What  a  man  really  feels  in  reference 
to  any  subject,  will  generally  appear  in  the  tones  of 
his  voice,  no  matter  whether  he  speak  lightly  or 
>  seriously.  Depend  upon  it,  this  is  so.  It  was  the 
s  manner  in  which  Leland  spoke  that  satisfied  me  as 
to  his  real  feelings,  more  than  the  language  he  used. 
Judging  him  in  this  way,  I  am  well  convinced  that, 
in  his  heart,  he  despises  religion ;  and  no  man  who 
does  this,  can  possibly  make  a  right-minded  woman 
*  happy." 

The  gentle  warning  of  Carlotti  was  not  wholly 
lost  on  Florence.  She  had  great  confidence  in  the 
judgment  of  her  friend,  and  did  not  feel  that  it 
would  be  right  to  wholly  disregard  her  admoi.itions. 

"What  answer  can  I  make?"  said  she,  drawing 
a  long  sigh.  "  He  urges  an  early  response  to  hia 
suit." 

"  Duty  to  yourself,  Florence,  demands  a  time  for 


I 


THE   GEXTLE   WAKNING.  67 


consideration.  Marriage  is  a  thing  of  too  vital  mo- 
ment to  be  decided  upon  hurriedly.  Say  to  him  in 
reply,  that  his  offer  is  unexpected,  and  that  you 
cannot  give  an  immediate  answer,  but  will  do  so  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment." 

"  So  cold  a  response  may  offend  him." 

"  If  it  does,  then  he  will  exhibit  a  weakness  of 
character  unfitting  him  to  become  the  husband  of  a 
sensible  woman.  If  he  be  really  attracted  by  your 
good  qualities,  he  will  esteem  you  the  more  for  this 
act  of  prudence.  He  will  understand  that  you  set  a 
high  regard  upon  the  marriage  relation,  and  do  not 
mean  to  enter  into  it  unless  you  know  well  the  per- 
son to  whom  you  commit  your  happiness  in  this 
world,  and,  in  all  probability,  the  next." 

"  A  coldly  calculating  spirit,  Carlotti,  that  nicely 
weighs  and  balances  the  merits  and  defects  of  one 
beloved,  is,  in  my  view,  hardly  consonant  with  true 
happiness  in  marriage.  All  have  defects  of  character. 
All  are  born  with  evil  inclinations  of  one  kind  or 
another.  Love  seeks  only  for  good  in  the  object  of 
affection.  Affinities  of  this  kind  are  almost  spon- 
taneous  in  their  birth.  We  love  more  from  impulse 
than  from  any  clear  appreciation  of  character — per- 
ceiving  good  qualities  by  a  kind  of  instinct  rather 
than  searching  for  them." 

"A  doctrine,  Florence,"  said  Carlotti,  "that  has 
produced  untold  misery  in  the  married  life.  As  I 
said  at  first,  it  is  only  the  moral  virtue  of  her  hus- 
band that  a  woman  can  love — it  is  ouly  this,  as  a 
uniting  principle,  that  can  make  two  married  part- 
ners one.  The  qualities  of  all  minds  express  them- 
selves in  words  and  actions,  and,  by  a  close  observance 


68  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


of  these  latter,  we  may  determine  the  nature  of  tha 
former.  We  cannot  perceive  them  with  sufficient 
clearness  to  arrive  at  a  sound  judgment :  the  only 
safe  method  is  to  determine  the  character  of  the  tree 
by  its  fruits.  Take  sufficient  time  to  arrive  at  a 
knowledge  of  Mr.  Leland's  character  hy  observation, 
and  then  you  can  accept  or  reject  him  under  the 
fullest  assurance  that  you  are  acting  wisely." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  murmured  Florence. 
"I  will  weigh  carefully  what  you  have  said." 

And  she  did  so.  Much  to  the  disappointment  of 
Mr.  Leland,  he  received  »  reply  from  Florence  ask- 
ing a  short  time  for  reflection. 

When  Florence  next  met  the  young  man,  there 
was,  as  a  natural  consequence,  some  slight  embar- 
rassment on  both  sides.  On  separating,  Florence 
experienced  a  certain  unfavourable  impression  toward 
him,  although  she  could  not  trace  it  to  any  thing  he 
had  said  or  done.  At  their  next  meeting,  Leland's 
reserve  had  disappeared,  and  he  exhibited  a  better 
flow  of  spirits.  He  was  more  off  his  guard  than 
usual,  and  said  a  good  many  things  that  rather  sur- 
prised Florence. 

Impatient  of  delay,  Leland  again  pressed  his  suit ; 
but  Florence  was  further  than  ever  from  being  ready 
to  give  an  answer.  She  was  not  prepared  to  reject 
him,  and  as  little  prepared  to  give  a  favourable 
answer.  Her  request  to  be  allowed  further  time  for 
consideration,  wounded  his  pride ;  and,  acting  under 
its  influence,  he  determined  to  have  his  revenge  on 
her  by  suing  for  the  hand  of  another  maiden,  and 
bearing  her  to  the  altar  while  she  was  hesitating 
over  the  offer  he  had  made.  With  this  purpose  in 


THE   GENTLE   WARNING.  69 

view,  he  penned  a  kind  and  polite  note,  approving 
her  deliberation,  and  desiring  her  to  take  the  fullest 
time  for  reflection.  "Marriage,"  said  he,  in  this 
cote,  "  is  too  serious  a  matter  to  be  decided  upon 
hastily.  It  is  a  life-union,  and  the  parties  who  make 
it  should  be  well  satisfied  that  there  exists  a  mutual 
fitness  for  each  other." 

Two  days  passed  after  Florence  received  this  note 
before  seeing  her  friend  Carlotti.  She  then  called 
upon  her  in  order  to  have  further  conversation  on 
the  subject  of  the  proposal  she  had  received.  The 
tenor  of  this  note  had  produced  a  favourable  change  \ 
in  her  feelings,  and  she  felt  strongly  disposed  to  J 
make  a  speedy  termination  of  the  debate  in  her  mind  j 
by  accepting  her  attractive  suitor. 

"Are  you  not  well?"  was  her  first  remark  on 
seeing  Carlotti,  for  her  friend  looked  pale  and 
troubled. 

"Not  very  well,  dear,"  replied  Carlotti,  making 
an  effort  to  assume  a  cheerful  aspect. 

The  mind  of  Florence  was  too  infent  on  the  one    !> 
interesting  subject  that  occupied  it  to  linger  long  on    '< 
any  other  theme.     But  a  short  time  elapsed  before 
she  said,  with  a  warmer  glow  on  her  cheeks — 

"I  believe  I  have  made  up  my  mind,  Carlotti." 

"  About  what  ?" 
\        «  The  offer  of  Mr.  Leland." 

"  Well,  what  is  your  decision  ?"     Carlotti  held  her    ;> 
$    breath  for  an  answer. 

"  I  will  accept  him." 

Without  replying,  Carlotti  arose,  and  going  to  a 
]  drawer,  took  therefrom  a  letter  addressed  to  herself, 
I  and  handing  it  to  Florence,  said — 


THE  HOME    MISSION. 


"Read  that." 

There  was  something  ominous  in  the  nunner  of 
Carlotti,  which  caused  Florence  to  become  agitated. 
Her  hands  trembled  as  she  unfolded  the  letter.  It 
\  bore  the  date  of  the  day  previous,  and  read  thus : — 

"  MY  DEAR  CARLOTTI  :  From  the  first  moment  I 
\  saw  you,  I  felt  that  you  were  the  one  destined  to 
\  make  me  happy  or  miserable.  Your  image  has  been 
\  present  to  me,  sleeping  or  waking,  ever  since.  I 
\  can  turn  in  no  way  that  it  is  not  before  me.  The 
oftener  I  have  met  you,  the  more  have  I  been 


charmed  by  the  gentleness,  the  sweetness,  the  purity, 
and  excellence  of  your  character.  With  you  to  walk 
through  life  by  my  side,  I  feel  that  my  feet  would 
tread  a  flowery  way ;  but  if  heaven  have  not  this 
blessing  in  store  for  me,  I  shall  be,  of  all  men,  most 
miserable.  My  heart  is  too  full  to  write  more. 
And  have  I  not  said  enough  ?  Love  speaks  in  brief 
but  eloquent  language.  Dear  young  lady,  let  me 
hear  from  you*  speedily.  I  shall  be  wretched  until 
I  know  your  decision.  Heaven  give  my  suit  a 
favourable  issue  !  Yours,  devotedly, 

"HERMAN  LELAND." 

A  deadly  paleness  overspread  the  countenance 
of  Florence  as  the  letter  dropped  from  her  hands ; 
and  she  leaned  back  against  her  friend  to  prevent 
falling  to  the  floor.  But,  in  a  little  while,  she  re- 
covered herself, 

"  And  this  to  you  ?"  said  she,  with  a  quivering 
lip,  as  she  gazed  earnestly  into  the  face  of  her 
friend. 


THE   GENTLE   WARNING.  71 


"Yes,  Florence,  that  to  me" 

"  Can  I  trust  my  own  senses  ?  Is  there  not  some 
illusion?  Let  me  look  at  it  again." 

And  Florence  stooped  for  the  letter,  and  fixed  her 
eyes  upon  it  once  more.  The  language  was  plain, 
and  the  handwriting  she  knew  too  well. 

"False-hearted!"  she  murmured,  in  a  low  and 
mournful  voice,  covering  her  face  and  sobbing. 

"Yes,  Florence,"  said  her  friend,  he  is  false- 
hearted. How  thankful  am  I  that  you  have  escaped ! 
Evidently  in  revenge  for  your  prudent  deliberation, 
he  has  sought  an  alliance  with  another.  Had  that 
other  one  accepted  his  heartless  proposal,  he  would 
have  met  your  favourable  answer  to  his  suit  with 
insult." 

For  a  long  time,  Florence  wept  on  the  bosom  of 
>  her  friend.  Then  her  feelings  grew  calmer,  and  her 
!  mind  became  clear. 

"  What  an  escape  !"  fell  from  her  lips  as  she  raised 
;    her  head  and  turned  her  still  pale  face  toward  Car 
;    lotti.     "  Thanks,  my  wiser  friend,  for  your  timely, 
;    yet  gentle  warning !     Your  eyes  saw  deeper  than 
J;    mine." 

"Yes,  yes ;  you  have  made  an  escape  !"  said  Car- 
lotti.  "  With  such  a  man,  your  life  could  only  have 
been  wretched." 

"Have  you  answered  his  letter?"  asked  Flor- 
ence. 

"Not  yet.  But  if  you  are  inclined  to  do  so,  we 
will,  on  the  same  sheet  of  paper  and  under  the  same 
envelope,  each  decline  the  honour  of  an  alliance. 
Such  a  rebuke  he  deserves,  and  we  ought  to  give  it." 

And  such  a  rebuke  they  gave. 


72  THE   HOME   AIISSKN. 


A  fe  w  months  later,  and  Leland  led  to  the  altar  A 
young  lady  reputed  to  be  an  heiress. 

A  year  afterward,  just  on  the  eve  of  Florence's 
marriage  to  a  gentleman  in  every  way  worthy  to 
take  her  happiness  in  his  keeping,  she  sat  alone  with 
her  fast  friend  Carlotti.  They  were  conversing  of 
the  bright  future. 

"  And  for  all  this  joy,  in  store  for  me,  Carlotti," 
said  Florence,  leaning  toward  her  friend  and  laying 
her  hand  affectionately  on  her  cheek,  "  I  am  in- 
debted to  you." 

"  To  me  ?     How  to  me,  dear  ?"  asked  Carlotti. 

"  You  saved  me  from  an  alliance  with  Leland.  i 
Oh,  into  what  an  abyss  of  wretchedness  would  I  have  j 
fallen  !  I  heard  to-day  that,  after  cruelly  abusing  ^ 
poor  Agnes  in  Charleston,  where  they  removed,  he  < 
finally  abandoned  her.  Can  it  be  true  ?" 

"  It  is,  I  believe,  too  true.     Agnes  came  back  to    $ 
Her  friends  last  week,  bringing  with  her  a  babe.     I 
have  not  seen  her ;  but  those  who  have  tell  me  that 
her  story  of  suffering  makes  the  heart  ache.     She 
looks  ten  years  older." 

"Ah  me!"  sighed  Florence.  "Marriage — how 
much  it  involves !  Even  now,  as  I  stand  at  its 
threshold,  with  so  much  that  looks  bright  in  the 
"uturc,  I  tremble.  Of  Edward's  excellent  character 
and  goodness  of  heart,  all  bear  testimony.  He  is 
every  thing  I  could  wish;  but  will  I  make  him 
happy?" 

"Not  all  you  could  wish,"  said  Carlotti,  seriously,  j 
"  None  are  perfection  feere  ;  and  you  must  not  expect  / 
this.  You  will  find,  in  your  husband's  character,  ' 
faults.  Anticipate  this;  but  let  the  anticipatior  * 

-  •»...*/ 


THE   GENTLE   WARNING.  73 


prepare  you  to  bear  with  rather  than  be  Lurt  when 
they  appear,  and  do  not  seek  too  soon  to  correct 
them.  It  is  said  by  a  certain  deeply-seeing  writer 
on  spiritual  themes,  that  when  the  angels  come  to 
try  one,  they  explore  his  mind  only  to  find  the  good 
therein,  that  they  may  excite  it  to  activity.  Be, 
then,  your  husband's  angel ;  explore  his  mind  foi 
the  good  it  contains,  and  seek  ^to  develop  and 
strengthen  it.  Looking  intently  at  what  is  good  in 
him,  you  will  not  be  likely  to  see  faults  looming  up 
and  assuming  a  magnitude  beyond  their  real  dimen- 
sions. But  when  faults  appear,  as  they  assuredly 
will,  compare  them  with  your  own ;  and,  as  you  would 
have  him  exercise  forbearance  toward  you,  do  you 
exercise  forbearance  toward  him.  Be  wise  in  your  ! 
love,  my  friend.  Wisdom  and  love  are  married  ! 
partners.  If  you  separate  them,  neither  is  a  safe  , 
guide.  But  if  you  keep  them  united,  like  a  rower  ; 
who  pulls  both  oars,  you  Avill  glide  swiftly  forward  j; 
in  a  smooth  sea." 

Florence  bent  her  head  as  she  listened,  and  every 
word  of  her  friend  made  its  impression.  Long  after 
were  they  remembered  and  acted  upon,  and  they 
saved  her  from  hours  of  pain.  Florence  is  a  happy 
wife ;  but  how  near  did  she  come  to  making  ship- 
wreck  of  her  love-freighted  heart  ?  There  are  times 
when,  in  thinking  of  it,  she  trembles. 


KATE'S    EXPERIMENT. 


KATE  HARBELL,  a  high-spirited  girl,  who  had  a 
pretty  strong  will  of  her  own,  was  about  being  mar- 
ried. Like  a  great  many  others  of  her  age  and  sex 
who  approach  the  matrimonial  altar,  Kate's  notions 
of  the  marriage  relation  were  not  the  clearest  in  the 
world. 

Ferdinand  Lee,  the  betrothed  of  Kate,  a  quiet, 
1  sensitive  young  man,  had,  perhaps,  as  strong  a  will 
I  as  the  young  lady  herself,  though  it  was  more  under 
i  the  control  of  reason.  He  was  naturally  impatient 
{  of  dictation  or  force,  and  a  strong  love  of  approba- 
s  tion  made  him  feel  keenly  any  thing  like  satire, 
f  ridicule  or  censure.  To  point  him  to  a  fault  was  to 
wound  if  not  offend  him.  Here  lay  the  weakness  of 
;  his  character.  All  this,  on  the  other  side,  was  coun- 
|>  terbalanced  by  kind  feelings,  good  sense,  and  manly 
principles.  He  was  above  all  meanness  or  dis- 
.";  honour. 

Of  course,  Kate  did  not  fully  understand  his  cha- 
;  racter.  Such  a  thing  as  a  young  girl's  accurate 
I  knowledge  of  the  character  of  the  man  she  is  about 
•;  to  marry,  is  of  very  rare  occurrence.  She  saw 
;!  enough  of  good  qualities  to  make  her  love  him  with 
j;  tenderness  and  devotion ;  but  she  also  saw  personal 
<  defects  that  were  disagreeable  in  the  object  of  her 
affections.  But  she  did  not  in  the  least  doubt 

74 


KATE  S    EXPERIMENT.  75 


that  all  these  she  could  easily  correct  in  him  after 
Bhe  became  his  wife. 

From  a  defect  of  education,  or  from  a  natural 
want  of  neatness  and  order,  Ferdinand  Lee  was  in- 
clined to  carelessnes  in  his  attire ;  and  also  exhibited 
a  certain  want  of  polish  in  his  manners  and  address 
that  was,  at  times,  particularly  annoying  to  Kate. 
\  "  I'll  break  him  of  that  when  I  get  him,"  said  the 
young  lady  to  a  married  friend,  alluding  to  some 
little  peculiarity  both  had  noticed. 

"Don't  be  too  certain,"  returned  the  lady,  smil- 
ing. 

"  You'll  see."     - 

Kate  tossed  her  head  in  a  resolute  way. 

"I'll  see  you  disappointed." 

"Wait  a  little  while.  Before  I'm  his  wife  six 
i  months,  you'll  hardly  know  the  man,  there'll  be  such 
ff  a  change." 

"  The  change  is  far  more  likely  to  take  place  in 

\  you." 

"  Why  do  you  say  that,  Mrs.  Morton  ?"  inquired 

^    Kate,  looking  grave. 

"Because  I  think  so.     Men  are  .not  so  easily 
brought  into  order,  and  the  attempt  at  reformation 

;    and  correction  by  a  young  wife  generally  ends  in 

j  painful  disappointment.  If  you  begin  this  work  you 
will,  in  all  probability,  find  yourself  tasked  beyond 

;  your  ability.  I  speak  from  some  experience,  having 
been  married  for  about  ten  years,  and  having  seen  a 
good  many  young  girls  come  up  into  our  ranks  from 
the  walks  of  single  blessedness.  Take  my  advice, 
and  look  away  from  Frederick's  faults  and  disagree- 
able peculiarities  as  much  as  possible,  and  think 


76  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


more  of  his  manly  traits  of  character — his  fine  senti- 
ments, and  honourable  principles." 

"  I  do  look  at  them  and  love  them,"  replied  Kate, 
with  animation.  "  These  won  my  heart  at  first,  and 
now  unite  me  to  him  in  bonds  that  cannot  be  broken. 
But  if  on  a  precious  gem  there  be  a  slight  blemish 
that  mars  its  beauty,  shall  we  nw  seek  to  remove  < 
the  defect,  and  thus  give  the  jewel  a  higher  lustre  ? 
Will  you  say,  no  ?" 

"  I  will,  if  in  the  act  there  be  danger  of  injuring  I 
the  gem." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Mrs.  Morton  ?" 

"  Reflect  for  a  moment,  and  see  if  my  meaning  id  ) 
not  apparent." 

"You  think  I  will  offend  him  if  I  point  uut  a  < 
fault,  or  seek  to  correct  it?" 

"  A  result  most  likely  to  follow." 

"I  will  not  think  so  poorly  of  his  good  sense," 
answered  Kate,  with  some  gravity  of  manner.     The    5 
suggestion  half  offended  her. 

"  None  are  perfect,  my  young  friend ;  don't  forget  !j 
that,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  with  equal  seriousness.  ' 
"  To  think  differently  is  a  common  mistake  of  per-  S 
sons  circumstanced  as  you  are." 

"It's  no  mistake  of  mine,  let  me  assure  you,"  re-  s 
plied  Kate.  "I  can  see  faults  as  quickly  as  any  ; 
one.  Love  can't  blind  me.  It  is  because  I  see  de-  j; 
fects  in  Frederick  that  I  wish  to  correct  them." 

"And  you  trust  to  his  good  sense  to  take  thjj  <; 
work  of  correction  kindly?" 

"  Certainly  I  do." 

"  Then  you  most  probably  think  him  more  per- 
fect than  he  really  is.     Very  few  people  can  bear 


KATE  S   EXPERIMENT.  77 


to  be  told  of  their  faults,  and  fewer  still  to  be  told 
of  them  by  those  they  love.  Love  is  expected  to  be 
blind  to  defects  ;  therefore,  when  it  is  seen  looking 
at  and  pointing  them  out,  the  feeling  produced  is,  in 
the  very  nature  of  things,  a  disagreeable  one.  Take 
iny  advice,  and  let  Frederick's  faults  alone,  at  least 
for  a  year  after  you  are  married  ;  and  even  then 
put  your  hand  on  them  very  lightly,  and  as  if  by  ac- 
cident." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  see  him  lounge,  or,  rather, 
slide  down  in  his  chair  in  that  ungraceful  way,  and 
not  speak  to  him  about  it  ?  Not  I.  It  makes  me 
nervous  now  ;  and,  if  I  wasn't  afraid  he  might  take 
it  unkindly,  would  call  his  attention  to  it." 

"  Do  you  think  he  will  be  less  likely  to  take  it 
unkindly  after  marriage  ?" 

"  Certainly.  Then  I  will  have  a  right  to  speak 
to  him  about  it." 

"  Then  marriage  will  give  you  certain  rights  over 
<;  your  husband?" 

"  It  will  give  him  rights  over  me,  and  a  very  poor 
£  rule  that  is  which  doesn't  work  both  ways.  Marriage 


L1 


will  make  him  my  husband  ;  and,  surely,"  a  wife  may 
tell  her  husband  that  he  is  not  perfect,  without 
offending  him." 

"  Kate,  Kate  ;  you  don't  know  what  you  are  talk- 
ing about,  child  !" 

"I  think  I  do." 

"  And  I  know  you  don't." 

"  Oh,  well,  Mrs.  Morton,  we  won't  quarrel  about 
it/'  said  Kate,  laughing.  "  I  mean  to  make  one  of 
the  best  of  wives,  and  have  one  of  the  best  of  husbands 

t  )  be  found.     He  wi'l  require  a  little  fixing  up  to 
i* 


78  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


make  him  just  to  my  mind,  but  don't  you  fear  but 
what  I'll  do  it  in  the  gentlest  possible  manner. 
Women  have  more  taste  than  men,  you  know,  and  a 
man  never  looks  and  acts  just  right  until  he  gets  a 
woman  to  take  charge  of  him." 

A  happy  bride  Kate  became  a  few  months  after 
this  little  conversation  took  place,  and  Lee  thought 
himself  the  most  fortunate  of  men  in  obtaining  such 
a  lovely,  accomplished,  and  right-minded  woman  for 
a  wife.  Swiftly  glided  away  the  sweet  honey-moon, 
without  a  jar  of  discord,  though,  during  the  time, 
Kate  saw  a  good  many  things  not  exactly  to  her 
mind,  and  which  she  set  down  as  needing  correction. 
One  evening,  it  was  just  five  weeks  after  the  mar- 
riage, and  when  they  were  snugly  settled  in  their 
own  house,  Frederick  Lee  was  seated  before  the 
grate,  in  a  handsome  rocking-chair,  his  body  in  a 

!;    position  that  it  would  have  required  a  stretch  of 

s    language  to  pronounce  graceful  or  becoming.     He    5 
had  drawn  off  one  of  his  boots,  that  was  lying  oij    \ 
the  floor,  and  the  leg  from  which  it  had  been  taken 
was  hanging  over  an   arm  of  his  chair.     He  had 

5    slipped  forward  in  the  chair — his  ordinary  mode  of 
sitting,  or,  rather,  lying — so  far  that  his  head,  which,    ij 
if  he  had  been  upright,  would  have  been  even  with 
the  top  of  the  back,  was  at  least  twelve  inches  below 
it.     To  add  to  the  effect  of  his  position,  he  was 
swinging  the  bootless  leg  that  hung  across  the  arm    ; 
of  the  chair  with  a  rapid,  circling  motion.     He  had    ', 

I    been  reclining  in  this  inelegant  attitude  for  about    I 
ten  minutes,  when  Kate,  who  had  permitted  herself 
to  become  a  good  deal  annoyed  by  it,  said  to  him,    '. 

j;     rather  earnestly — 


KATE'S  EXPERIMENT.  79 


"  Do,  Frederick,  sit  up  straight,  and  try  and  be 
a  little  more  graceful  in  your  positions." 

"What's  that?"  inquired  the  young  man,  as  if  ho 
had  not  heard  distinctly. 

"  Can't  you  sit  up  straight?" 

Kate  smiled ;  but  Lee  saw  that  it  was  a  forced 
:':  smile. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  answered,  indifferently.  "  I  can  sit 
^  up  straight  as  an  arrow,  but  I  find  this  attitude  most 
£  agreeable." 

"  If  you  knew  how  you  looked,"  said  Kate.        ^ 

"How  do  I  look?"  asked  the  young  man,  play- 

:  fully. 

"  Oh !  you  |f>ok — you  look  more  like  a  country 
!>  clod-hopper  than  any  thing  else." 

There  was  a  sharpness  in  Kate's  tones  that  fell 
unpleasantly  on  the  ears  of  the  young  man. 

"  Do  I,  indeed  !"  was  his  rather  cold  remark.  Yet 
he  did  not  change  his  position. 

"  Indeed,  you  do,"  said  the  wife,  who  was,  by  this 
time,  beginning  to  feel  a  good  deal  of  irritation  ;  for 
she  saw  that  Frederick  was  not  inclined  to  respond 
in  the  way  she  had  hoped,  to  her  very  reasonable  de- 
sire that  he  would  assume  a  more  graceful  attitude. 
"  The  fact  is,"  she  continued,  impelled  to  further 
utterance  by  the  excited  state  of  her  feelings, 
although  she  was  conscious  of  having  already  said 
more  than  was  agreeable  to  her  husband,  "you 
ought  to  correct  yourself  of  these  ungraceful  and  un- 
dignified habits.  It  shows  a  want  of" 

Kate  stopped  suddenly.  She  felt  that  she  waa 
about  using  words  that  would  inevitably  give  offence. 

"A  want  of  what ?"  inquired  Lee,  in  a  low,  firifc 


80  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


voice,  while  he  continued  to  look  his  young  wife 
steadily  in  the  face. 

Kate's  eyes  fell  to  the  floor  and  she  remained  i> 
silent. 

"  Ungraceful  and  undignified.     Humph  !" 

Lee  was  evidently  hurt  at  this  allegation,  as  | 
the  tone  in  which  he  repeated  the  words  clearly  ; 
showed. 

u  Do  you  call  your  present  attitude  graceful?" 
Kate  asked,  rallying  herself  under  the  reflection    i 
that  she  was  right. 

"It  is  comfortable  for  me ;  and,  therefore,  ought  | 
to  be  graceful  in  your  eyes,"  was  the  young  man's  5 
perverse  answer.  Not  the  slightest  change  had  yet  ^ 
taken  place  in  his  position. 

This  was  beyond  what  the  high  spirited  lady  could  ^ 
bear,  and  she  retorted  with  more  feeling  than  dis-  £ 
•,retion : 

"  Love  is  not  blind  in  my  case,  I  can  assure  you,  £ 
Frederick,  and  never  will  be.  You  are  very  un-  5 
graceful  and  untidy,  and  annoy  me,  sometimes,  ex-  ^ 
cessively.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  correct  these 
things." 

"  You  do  ?" 

There  was  something  cool  and  provoking  in  the 
way  Lee  said  this. 

"  I  do,  Frederick,  and  I'm  in  earnest." 

The  cheeks  of  Kate  were  in  a  glow,  and  her  eyes  j 
lit  up,  and  her  lips  quivering. 

"  How  long  since  you  made  the  discovery  that  I 
was  only  a  country  clod-hopper  ?"  said  Lee,  who  was 
particularly  annoyed  by  Kate's  unexpected  charges 
against  his  gc  od-breeding. 


KATE  S   EXPERIMENT.  81 


"  I  didn't  say  you  were  only  a  country  clod-hop- 
per," replied  Kate. 

"  I  believe  you  used  the  words.  My  ears  rarely 
deceive  me.  I  must  own  to  feeling  highly  compli- 
mented." 

"  Do  sit  up  straight,  Frederick  !  Do  take  your 
leg  from  over  the  arm  of  that  chair  !  You  make  me 
BO  nervous  that  I  can  hardly  contain  myself." 

"  Really !  I  thought  a  man  was  privileged  to  sit 
in  any  position  he  pleased  in  his  own  house." 

The  excitement  of  Kate's  mind  had,  by  this  time, 
reached  a  crisis.  Bursting  into  tears,  she  hurried 
from  the  room,  and  went  sobbing  up  to  her  chamber. 

Here  was  a  fine  state  of  affairs,  indeed!  Was 
ever  a  man  so  perverse  and  unreasonable  ? 

Did  Frederick  Lee  follow,  quickly,  his  weeping 
wife  ?  No ;  his  pride  was  too  deeply  wounded  for  that. 

"  A  country  clod-hopper  !  Undignified  and  un- 
graceful!  Upon  my  word!"  Such  were  some  of 
his  mental  ejaculations.  And  then,  as  his  feelings 
grew  excited,  he  started  up  from  his  chair  and  began 
pacing  the  floor,  muttering,  as  he  did  so — 

"  It  is  rather  late  in  the  day  to  make  this  dis- 
covery !  Why  didn't  she  find  it  out  before  ?  Humph !" 

Meanwhile,  Kate  had  thrown  herself  across  her 
bed,  where  she  lay,  weeping  bitterly. 

What  a  storm  had  suddenly  been  blown  about 
their  ears ! 

It  was  fully  an  hour  before  Frederick  Lee's  dis- 
turbed feelings  began  to  run  at  all  clear.  He  was 
both  surprised  and  offended.  What  could  all  this 
mean  ?  What  had  all  at  once  come  over  his  young 
wife  ? 


82  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  A  country  clod-hopper !"  he  muttered  to  himself 
over  and  over  again.  "  Ungraceful — uugenteel, 
and  all  that !  Very  complimentary,  indeed  !" 

When  Lee  joined  his  wife  in  their  chamber,  two 
hours  after  she  had  left  him,  he  found  that  she  had 
retired  to  hed  and  was  sleeping. 

On  the  next  morning  both  looked  very  sober,  and 
both  were  cold  and  distant.  A  few  words  only 
passed  between  them.  It  was  the  same  when  they  < 
met  at  dinner-time,  and  the  same  when  Lee  came  ij 
home  in  the  evening.  During  the  whole  of  this  day,  £ 
the  thought  of  each  was  upon  the  other ;  but  it  was  \ 
not  a  forgiving  thought.  Kate  cherished  angry  £ 
feelings  toward  her  husband;  and  Lee  continued  $ 
to  be  offended  at  the  freedom  of  expression  which  £ 
j  his  young  wife  had  ventured  to  use  toward  him.  I; 
\  Of  course,  both  were  very  unhappy. 

The  formal  intercourse  of  the  tea-table  having  /, 
^  ended,  Lee,  feeling  little  inclined  to  pass  the  evening  • 
\  with  his  reserved  and  sober-looking  partner,  put  on  !• 
his  hat,  and  merely  remarking  that  he  would  not  re-  \, 
$  turn  until  bed-time,  left  the  house.  This  act  startled  j; 
^  Kate.  With  the  jar  of  the  closing  door  came  a  gush  ; 
•;  of  tears.  The  evening  was  passed  alone.  How  > 
'(  wretched  she  feh  as  the  hours  moved  slowly  on  ! 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  Lee  came  home. 
!;  By  that  time,  the  mind  of  Kate  was  in  an  agony  of 
\  suspense.  More  than  once  the  thought  that  he  had 
^  abandoned  her  intruded  itself,  and  filled  her  with 
fear  and  anguish.  What  a  relief  to  her  feelings 
it  was  when  she  heard  the  rattle  cf  his  night- 
key  in  the  lock!  But  she  could  not  meet  hiro 
with  a  smile.  She  could  not  throw  her  arms  around 


KATE'S  EXPERIMENT.  83 


J    fiis  leek,  and  press  her  hot  cheek  to  his.     No :  for 

!    ehe  felt  that  he  was  angry  with  her  without  just  cause. 

and  had  visited  with  unjust  severity  a  light  offence — 

if,  so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  her  act  were  worthy 

to  be  called  an  offence. 

And  so  they  looked  coldly  upon  each  other  when 
<  they  met,  and  then  averted  their  eyes. 

The  morning  broke,  but  with  no  fairer  promise  of 
•;  a  sunny  day.  Clouds  obscured  their  whole  horizon. 
^  Coldly  they  parted  after  the  brief  and  scarcely  tasted 
<;  meal.  How  wretched  they  were  ! 

During  the  forenoon,  Mrs.  Morton,  the  friend  of 
$  Mrs.  Lee,  called  in  to  see  her  young  friend. 

"Why,  Kate!  What  has  happened?"  she  ex- 
j;  claimed,  the  moment  she  saw  her. 

Mrs.  Lee  tried  to  smile  and  look  indifferent,  aa 
5  she  answered — 

"  Happened  ?    Why  do  you  say  that  ?" 

"  You  look  as  if  you  hadn't  a  friend  left  in  the 
!;  world !" 

"  And  I  don't  know  that  I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Lee, 
;  losing,  all  at  once,  her  self-command,  and  permitting 
'•  the  ready  tears  to  gush  forth. 

"Why,  Kate,  dear!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Morton, 
\  drawing  her  arm  around  the  neck  of  her  young 
\  friend.  "  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  Some- 
:  thing  wrong  with  Frederick  ?" 

Kate  was  silent. 

Mrs.  Morton  reflected  for  a  moment,  and  then 
;  said — 

"  Been  trying  to  correct  some  of  his  faults,  ha  ?" 

No  answer.    But  the  sobbing  became  less  violent. 

6  Ah,  Kate  !  Kate  !  I  warned  you  of  this." 

f^Ji 


f 

\     84  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

"  Warned  me  of  what  ?" 
Mrs.  Lee  lifted  her  head,  and  tried  to  assume 
an  air  of  dignity  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  warned  you  that  Frederick  would  not  bear  it, 
if  you  attempted  to  lay  your  hand  upon  his  faults." 
Kate  raised  her  head  higher,  and  compressed  her 
lips.     Still  she  did  not  answer. 

"  A  young  husband,  naturally  enough,  thinks  him- 
^  self  faultless — at  least  in  the  eyes  of  his  wife." 

"  Very  far  from  faultless  is  Frederick  in  my  eyes," 
£  said  Kate.  "  My  love  is  not  blind,  and  so  I  told 
j  him." 

"You  did!" 

"Yes,  I  did,  and  in  so  many  words,"  replied 
\  Kate,  with  spirit. 

"  Ah,  silly  child !"  returned  her  friend.    "  Already 
you  have  the  reward  of  your  folly.     I  forewarned 
(    you  how  it  would  be." 

"  Are  my  wishes,  feelings,  and  taste  to  be  of  no 
\  account  whatever?"  said  Kate,  warmly.  "Frede- 
\  rick  is  to  be  and  do  just  what  he  pleases,  and  I  must 
^  say  nothing,  do  nothing,  and  bear  every  thing.  Was 
j  this  the  contract  between  us  ?  No,  Mrs.  Morton  !" 

The  bright  eyes  of  Mrs.  Lee  flashed  with  indig- 
\  nant  fire. 

"  Come,  come,  Ke.ty,  dear  !  Don't  let  that  impul- 
sive heart  of  thine  lead  thee  too  far  aside  from  the 
path  of  prudence  and  safety.  I  am  sure  that  Frede- 
rick Lee  is  no  self-willed,  exacting,  domestic  tyrant. 
I  sould  not  have  been  so  deceived  in  him.  But  tell 
me  the  particular  cause  of  your  trouble.  What  has 
been  said  and  done  ?  You  have  given  offence,  and 
he  has  become  offended.  Tell  me  the  whole  storyf 


KATE'S  EXPERIMENT.  85 


Kate,  and  then  I'll  know  what  to  say  and  do  for  the 
restoration  of  your  peace." 

"  You  are  aware,"  said  Kate,  after  a  brief  pause, 
and  with  a  deepening  flush  on  her  cheeks,  "how 
awkward  and  untidy  Frederick  is  at  times, — how 
he  lounges  in  his  chair,  and  throws  his  body  into  all 
manner  of  ungraceful  attitudes." 
"Well?" 

"  This,  as  you  know,  has   always   annoyed  me 
sadly.     Night  before  last,  I  felt  so  worried  with 
him,  that  I  could  not  help  speaking  right  out." 
"  Ah  !  when  you  were  worried  ?" 
"  Of  course.     If  I  hadn't  felt  worried,  I  wouldn't 
\    have  said  any  thing." 

"  Indeed  !    Well,  what  did  you  say  ?    Was  your 
tone  of  voice  low  and  full  of  love,  and  your  words  as 
gentle  as  the  falling  dew  ?" 
"  Mrs.  Morton  ?" 

There  was  a  half-angry,  indignant  expression  in 
£  the  voice  of  Kate. 

"  Did  you  lay  your  hand  lightly,  like  the  touch 
^  of  a  feather,  upon  the  fault  you  designed  to  correct, 
/  or  did  you  grasp  it  rudely  and  angrily  ?" 
J  Kate's  eyes  drooped  beneath  those  of  her  friend. 
,'  "  You  were  annoyed  and  excited,"  continued  Mrs. 
ij  Morton.  "  This  by  your  own  acknowledgment,  and, 
s  in  such  a  frame  of  mind,  you  charged  with  faults  the 
\  one  who  had  vainly  thought  himself,  at  least  in  your 
\  eyes,*perfect.  And  he,  as  a  natural  consequence,  waa 
\  hurt  and  offended.  But  what  did  you  say  to  him  ?" 
\  "  I  hardly  know  what  I  said,  now,"  returned  Kate. 
/  "  But  I  know  I  used  the  words  ungraceful,  undigni- 
s  fied,  and  country  cUd-hopper." 


85  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  Why,  Kate !  I  am  surprised  at  you !  And  this 
*JQ  so  excellent  a  man  as  Frederick,  who,  from  all 
the  fair  and  gentle  ones  around  him,  chose  you  to 
be  his  bosom  friend  and  life  companion.  Kate, 
Kate  !  That  was  unworthy  of  you.  That  was  un- 
kind to  him.  I  do  not  wonder  that  he  was  hurt  and 
offended." 

"Perhaps  I  was  wrong,  Mrs.  Morton,"  said  Kate,  < 
as  tears  began  to  flow  again.  "But  Frederick's  ] 
\  want  of  order,  grace,  and  neatness,  is  dreadful.  I  ; 
:  cannot  tell  you  how  much  it  annoys  me." 

"You  saw  all  this  before  you  were  married." 
"Not  all  of  it." 

"You  saw  enough  to  enable  you  to  judge  of  the 
rest." 

"  True ;  but  then  I  always  meant  to  correct  these 
things  in  him.  They  were  but  blemishes  on  a  jewel 
of  surpassing  value." 

\        "Ah,  Kate,  you  have  proved  the  truth  of  what  I 
'/    told  you  before  your  marriage.     It  is  not  so  easy  a 
(    thing  to  correct  the  faults  of  a  husband — faults  con- 
!;    firmed  by  long  habit.     Whenever  a  wife  attempts 
this,  she  puts  in  jeopardy,  for  the  time  being  at  least, 
her  happiness,  as  you  have  done.     A  man  is  but 
i    little  pleased  to  make  the  discovery  that  his  wife 
thinks  him  no  better  than  a  country  clod-hopper ; 
and  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  should  be  offended,  if 
fihe,  with  strange  indiscreetness  and  want  of  tact, 
tells  him  in  plain  terms  what  she  thinks     Your  hus- 
band is  sensitive,  Kate." 
"I  know  he  is." 
"And  keenly  alive  to  ridicule." 
"  I  am  not  aware  of  that." 


KATE'S   EXPERIMENT.  87 


"  Then  your  reading  of  his  character  is  less  accu- 
rate than  mine.  Moreover,  he  has  a  pretty  good 
opinion  of  himself." 

"We  all  have  that." 

"And  a  strong  will,  quiet  as  he  is  in  exterior." 

"Not  stronger,  perhaps,  than  I  have." 

"  Take  my  advice,  Kate,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  se- 
riously, "  and  don't  bring  your  will  in  direct  opposi- 
tion to  his." 

"And  why  not?  Am  I  not  his  equal?  He  is  no 
master  of  mine.  I  did  not  sell  myself  as  his  slave, 
that  his  will  should  he  my  law!" 

"  Silly  child  !  How  madly  you  talk  !"  said  Mrs. 
Morton.  "Not  for  the  world  would  I  have  Frede- 
rick hear  such  utterance  from  your  lips.  Does  he 
not  love  you  tenderly?  Has  he  not,  in  every  way, 
sought  your  happiness  thus  far  in  your  hrief  married 
life  ?  Is  he  not  a  man  of  high  moral  virtue  ?  Doe3 
not  your  alliance  with  him  rather  elevate  than  de- 
press you  in  the  social  rank  ?  And  yet,  forsooth, 
because  he  lounges  in  his  chair,  and  permits  his  body, 
at  times,  to  assume  ungraceful  attitudes,  you  must  < 
throw  the  apple  of  discord  into  your  pleasant  home  <! 
to  mar  its  beautiful  harmonies." 

"  Surely,  a  wife  may  be  permitted  to  speak  to  her  > 
husband,  and  even  seek  to  correct  his  faults,"  said  J 
Kate. 

"Better  shut  her  eyes  to  his  faults,  if  seeing  £ 
them  is  to  make  them  both  unhappy.  You  are  in  a  $ 
very  strange  mood,  Kate." 

"Am  I?"  returned  Mrs.  Lee,  querulously. 

"  You  are ;  and  the  quicker  it  passes  away,  the 
better  for  both  yourself  and  husband." 


\     b»  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  I  ion't  know  how  soon  it  will  pass  away,"  sighed  £ 
Kate,  moodily. 

"Good-morning,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  rising  and  '; 
making  a  motion  to  depart. 

"You  are  not  going  ?" 

Kate  glanced  up  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"Yes ;  I  am  afraid  to  stay  here  any  longer,"  was  £ 
the  affected  serious  reply.  "  I  might  catch  some-  '? 
thing  of  your  spirit,  and  then  my  husband  would  j 
find  a  change  in  his  pleasant  home.  Good-morning.  £ 
May  I  see  you  in  a  better  state  of  mind  when  we  [ 
meet  again." 

And  saying  this,  Mrs.  Morton  passed  from  the  j> 
room  so  quickly  that  Kate  could  not  arrest  the  j; 
movement ;  so  she  remained  seated,  though  a  little  ', 
disturbed  by  her  friend  and  monitor's  sudden  de-  5 
parture. 

What  Mrs.  Morton  had  said,  although  it  seemed  j 
not  to  impress  the  mind  of  her  young  friend,  yet  ( 
lingered  there,  and  now  began  gradually  to  do  its  i 
work. 

As  for  Frederick  Lee,  he  was  unhappy  enough.  \ 
The  words  of  Kate  had  stung  him  severely. 

"  And  so,  in  her  eyes,  I  am  no  better  than  a  coun- 
try clod-hopper !" 

Almost  every  hour  was  this  repeated — sometimes  ' 
mentally  and  sometimes  aloud ;  and  at  each  repeti-  j 
tion,  it  disturbed  his  feelings  and  awakened  an  , 
unforgiving  spirit. 

"  A  clod-hopper,  indeed !  Wonder  she  never  ) 
made  this  discovery  before  !" 

This  was  the  thought  of  Lee  as  he  left  his  place 
;'    of  business  to  return  home,  on  the  evening  of  the 

*-rw-.. 


KATE'S  EXPERIMENT.  89 


1 


day  on  which  Mrs.  Morton  called  upon  Kate.  "Why 
j>  would  he  not  look  away  from  this?  Why  wculd  he 
\  ponder  over  and  magnify  the  offence  of  Kate  ?  Why 
>  would  he  keep  this  ever  before  his  eyes  ?  His  self- 
<  love  had  been  wounded.  His  pride  had  been  touched. 
?  The  weapon  of  ridicule  had  been  used  against  him, 
•1  and  to  ridicule  he  was  morbidly  sensitive.  Kate 
\  should  have  read  his  character  more  closely,  and 
<!  should  have  understood  it  better.  But  she  was 
ignorant  of  his  weaknesses,  and  bore  heavily  upon 
them  ere  aware  of  their  existence. 

It  was  in  this  brooding,  clouded,  and  unforgiving 
£  state  of  mind  that  Frederick  Lee  took  his  way  home- 
j;  ward.  On  entering  his  dwelling,  which  he  did  almost 
noiselessly,  he  went  into  the  parlour  and  seated  him- 
self in  the  very  place  where  he  was  sitting  when 
Kate  began,  so  unexpectedly  to  him,  her  unsuccess- 
ful work  of  reformation.  Every  thing  around  re- 
minded him  of  that  unfortunate  evening — even  the 
lounging  position  he  so  naturally  assumed,  sliding 
down,  as  he  did,  in  the  chair,  and  throwing  one  of 
his  legs  over  the  arm. 

"It  is  comfortable  for  me,"  said  he,  moodily  to 
himself;  "  and  it's  my  own  house.  If  she  don't  like 

it,  let  her " 

He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  he  felt  tha* 
his  state  of  mind  was  not  what  it  should  be,  an<? 
that  to  speak  thus  of  his  wife  was  neither  just  nor 
kind. 

Unhappy  young  man  !  Is  it  thus  you  visit  the 
light  offence — for  it  was  light,  in  reality — of  th/s 
loving  and  gentle  y>ung  creature  who  has  given  her 
happiness,  her  very  life  mln  your  keeping?  Could 

8* 


90  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


L 


you  not  bear  a  word  from  her  ?  Are  you  so  perfect, 
that  her  eyes  must  see  no  defect  ?  Is  she  never  to 
dare,  on  penalty  of  your  stern  displeasure,  to  correct 
a  fault — to  seek  to  lift  you,  by  her  purer  and  better 
taste,  above  the  ungraceful  and  unmanly  habits  con- 
sequent upon  a  neglected  boyhood  ?  What  if  her 
hand  Avas  laid  rather  heavily  upon  you  ?  What  if 
her  feelings  did  prompt  her  to  use  words  that  had 
better  been  left  unsaid  ?  It  was  the  young  wife's 
pride  in  her  husband  that  warmed  her  into  undue 
excitement,  and  this  you  should  have  at  once  com- 
prehended. 

If  Frederick  Lee  did  not  think  precisely  as  we   \ 
have  written,  his  thoughts  gradually  incline  d  in  that    s 
direction.      Still   he   felt  moody,  and  hi*  feelings 
warmed  but  little  toward  Kate. 

Thus  he  sat  for  some  ten  or  fifteen  mii.utes.  At 
the  end  of  this  time,  he  heard  light  footsteps  coming 
down  the  stairs.  He  knew  them  to  be  taose  of  his 
wife.  He  did  not  move  nor  make  a  sound,  but  rather 
crouched  lower  in  his  chair,  the  back  oi  which  was  J 
turned  toward  the  door.  But  his  thought  was  on 
his  wife.  He  saw  her  with  the  eyes  of  his  mind — 
saw  her  with  her  clouded  countenance.  His  heart 
throbbed  heavily  against  his  side,  and  he  partially 
held  his  breath. 

Now  her  footsteps  moved  along  the  passage,  and 
now  he  was  conscious  that  she  had  entered  the  room 
where  he  sat.  Not  the  slightest  movement  did  he 
make — not  a  sign  did  he  give  of  his  presence.  There 
he  sat,  shrinking  down  in  his  chair,  moody,  gloomy, 
and  angry  with  Kate  in  his  heart. 

Was  she  aware  of  his  presence  ?     Had  she  heard 


KATE'S  EXPEKIAJENT. 


him  enter  the  house  ?     Such  were  the  questioning 
thoughts  that  were  in  his  mind. 

Footsteps  moved  across  the  room.  Now  Kate 
was  at  the  mantel-piece,  a  few  feet  from  the  chair 
he  occupied,  for  he  heard  her  lay  a  hook  thereon 
Now  she  passed  to  the  back  window,  and  throwing 
it  up,  pushed  open  the  shutters,  giving  freer  entrance 
to  the  waning  light. 

A  deep  silence  followed.  Now  the  stillness  is 
broken  by  a  gentle  sigh  that  floats  faintly  through 
the  room.  How  rebukingly  smote  that  sigh  upon 
the  ears  of  Lee !  How  it  softened  his  heart  toward 
Kate,  the  young  and  loving  wife  of  his  bosom  !  A 
slower  movement  in  the  current  of  his  angry  feelings 
succeeds  to  this.  Then  it  becomes  still.  There  is 
a  pause. 

But  where  is  Kate  ?  Has  she  left  the  room  ?  He 
listens  for  some  movement,  but  not  the  slightest 
sound  meets  his  ear. 

"  Kate  !"  No,  he  did  not  utter  the  word  aloud, 
in  tender  accents,  though  it  was  in  his  heart  and  on 
his  tongue.  Nor  did  he  start  up  or  move.  No,  as 
if  spell-bound,  he  remained  crouching  down  in  his 
chair. 

All  at  once  he  is  conscious  that  some  one  is  bend- 
ing above  him,  and,  in  the  next  moment,  warm  lips 
touch  his  forehead,  gently,  hesitatingly,  yet  with  a 
lingering  pressure.  > 

"Kate!     Dear  Kate !" 

He  has  sprung  to  his  feet,  and  his  arms  are  flung      j 
around  his  wife. 

"Forgive  me,  Frederick,  if  I  seemed  unkind  to 
you,"  sobbed  Kate,  as  soon  as  she  could  command 


92  THE   HOME    MISSION. 

her  voice.     "  There  was  no  unkindness  in  my  heart 
— only  love." 

"It  is  I  who  most  need  to  ask  forgiveness,"  re- 
plied Lee.  "I  who  have " 

"  Hush !  Not  a  word  of  that  now,"  quickly  re- 
turned Kate,  placing  her  hand  upon  his  mouth. 
"Let  the  past  be  forgotten." 

"And  forgiven,  too,"  said  Lee,  as  he  pressed  his 
lips  eagerly  to  those  of  his  wife. 

How  happy  they  were  at  this  moment  of  recon- 
ciliation !  How  light  seemed  the  causes  which  had 
risen  up  to  mar  the  beautiful  harmony  of  their  lives  ! 
How  weak  and  foolish  both  had  been,  as  their  acts 
now  appeared  in  eyes  from  which  had  fallen  the 
scales  of  passion ! 

Both  were  wiser  than  in  the  aforetime.  Kate  tried 
to  look  away,  as  much  as  possible,  from  the  little  ^ 
faults  which  at  first  so  much  annoyed  her ;  while  s 
her  husband  turned  his  thoughts  more  narrowly  j; 
upon  himself,  at  the  same  time  that  he  made  ob-  ff 
servation  of  other  men,  and  was  soon  well  convinced  \ 
that  sundry  changes  in  his  habits  and  manners  might  < 
be  made  with  great  advantage.  The  more  his  eyes  ^ 
were  opened  to  these  little  personal  defects,  the  ; 
more  fully  did  he  forgive  Kate  for  having  in  the  \ 
beginning  laid  her  hand  upon  them,  though  not  in 
the  gentlest  manner. 

"  Six  months  have  passed  since  you  were  married," 
said  Mrs.  Morton  one  day  to  Kate. 

"Yes,  six  months  have  flown  on  wings  of  per- 
fume," replied  the  happy  wife. 

"I  saw  Frederick  yesterday  " 

"Did  you?" 


KATE'S  EXPERIMENT.  98 


"  Yes ;  and  I  knew  him  the  moment  my  eyes 
rested  upon  him." 

"  Knew  him  !     Why  shouldn't  you  know  him  ?" 

Kate  looked  a  little  surprised. 

"  I  thought  he  was  to  be  so  changed  under  your 
hands7 in  six  months,  that  I  would  hardly  recognise 
him." 

There  was  an  arch  look  in  Mrs.  Morton's  eyes, 
and  a  merry  flutter  in  her  voice. 

"  Mrs.  Morton  !     Now  that  is  too  bad!" 

"  Your  experiment  failed,  did  it  not,  dear  ?" 

The  door  of  the  room  in  which  the  ladies  were 
sitting  opened  at  the  moment,  and  Frederick  Lee 
entered. 

"Not  entirely,"  whispered  Kate,  as  she  bent  to 
the  ear  of  her  friend.  "  He  is  vastly  improved — at 
least,  in  my  eyes." 

"  And  in  others'  eyes,  too,"  thought  Mrs.  Morton, 
as  she  arose  and  returned  the  young  man's  smiling 
salutation. 

I 


"MY  FORTUNE'S  MADE." 


My  young  friend,  Cora  Lee,  was  a  gay,  dashing 
girl,  fond  of  dress,  and  looking  always  as  if,  to  use 
a  common  saying,  just  out  of  a  bandbox.  Cora  was 
a  belle,  of  course,  and  had  many  admirers.  Among 
the  number  of  these,  was  a  young  man  named  Ed- 
ward  Douglass,  who  was  the  very  "  pink"  of  neatness 
in  all  matters  pertaining  to  dress,  and  exceedingly 
particular  in  his  observance  of  the  little  proprieties 
of  life. 

I  saw,  from  the  first,  that  if  Douglass  pressed  his 
suit,  Cora's  heart  would  be  an  easy  conquest,  and  so 
it  proved. 

"How  admirably  they  are  fitted  for  each  other!" 
I  remarked  to  my  husband,  on  the  night  of  thoii 
wedding.  "  Their  tastes  are  similar,  and  their 
habits  so  much  alike,  that  no  violence  will  be  done 
to  the  feelings  of  either  in  the  more  intimate  asso- 
ciations that  marriage  brings.  Both  are  neat  in 
person  and  orderly  by  instinct,  and  both  have  good 
principles." 

"From  all  present  appearances,  the  match  wil) 
be  a  good  one,"  replied  my  husband.  There  wasp  ] 
thought,  something  like  reservation  in  his  tone. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?"  I  said,  a  little  ironi- 
cally, for  Mr.  Smith's  approval  of  the  marriage  w*i 
hardly  warm  enough  to  suit  my  fancy. 

"Oh,  certainly!     Why  not?"  he  replied. 
94 


r 

MY  FORTUNE'S  MADE.  95 


I  felt  a  little  fretted  at  my  husband's  mode  of 
speaking,  bust  made  no  further  remark  on  the  sub- 
ject.    He  is  never  very  enthusiastic  nor  sanguine, 
and  did  not  mean,  in  this  instance,  to  doubt  the  fit- 
ness of  the  parties  for  happiness  in  the  marriage 
state — as  I  half  imagined.     For  myself,  I  warmly 
approved  of  my  friend's  choice,  and  called  her  hus- 
j!    band   a   lucky  man  to  secure,  for   his  companion 
|    through  life,  a  woman  so  admirably  fitted  to  make 
;    one  like  him  happy.     But  a  visit  which  I  p*tid  to 
|    Cora  one  day  about  six  weeks  after  the  hone /moon 
]    had  expired,  lessened  my  enthusiasm  on  the  s  .bj«ct, 
\    and  awoke  some  unpleasant  doubts.     It  happened 
that  I  called  soon  after  breakfast.     Cora  met  me  in 
the  parlour,  looking  like  a  very  fright.     She  wore 
a  soiled  and  rumpled  morning  wrapper ;    her  hair 
\    was  in  papers ;  and  she  had  on  dirty  stockings,  and 
a  pair  of  old  slippers  down  at  the  heels. 

"  Bless  me,  Cora  !"  said  I.    "  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Have  you  been  sick?" 

"  No.     Why  do  you  ask  ?     Is  my  dishabille  rather 
on  the  extreme  ?" 

"  Candidly,  I  think  it   is,  Cora,"  was  my  frank 
answer. 

"  Oh,  well !     No  matter,"  she  carelessly  replied, 
"  my  fortune's  made." 

"I  don't  clearly  understand  you,"  said  I. 
"I'm  married,  you  know." 
"Yes;  I  am  aware  of  that  fact." 
"No  need  of  being  so  particular  in  drest  now." 
"Why  not?" 

"  Didn't  I  just  say  ?"  replied  Cora.     *  My  for-   \ 
tune's  made.     I've  got  a  husband." 


96  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


Beneath  an  air  of  jesting,  was  apparent  the  real  ' 
earnestness  of  my  friend 

"You  dressed  with  a  careful  regard  to  taste  \ 
and  neatness,  in  order  to  win  Edward's  love?"  > 
said  I. 

"Certainly  I  did." 

"  And  should  you  not  do  the  same  in  order  to  i 
retain  it?" 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Smith !  Do  you  think  my  husband's 
affection  goes  no  deeper  than  my  dress  ?  I  should 
be  very  sorry  indeed  to  think  that.  He  loves  me 
for  myself." 

"  No  doubt  of  that  in  the  world,  Cora.  But  re- 
member that  he  cannot  see  what  is  in  your  mind 
except  by  what  you  do  or  say.  If  he  admires  your 
taste,  for  instance,  it  is  not  from  any  abstract  ap- 
preciation thereof,  but  because  the  taste  manifests 
itself  in  what  you  do.  And,  depend  upon  it,  he  will 
find  it  a  very  hard  matter  to  approve  and  admire 
your  correct  taste  in  dress,  for  instance,  when  you 
appear  before  him,  day  after  day,  in  your  present 
unattractive  attire.  If  you  do  not  dress  well  for 
your  husband's  eyes,  for  whose  eyes,  pray,  do  you 
dress  ?  You  are  as  neat  when  abroad  as  you  were 

V     C  " 

before  your  marriage. 

"As  to  that,  Mrs.  Smith,  common  decency  re- 
quires me  to  dress  well  when  I  go  upon  the  street 
or  into  company,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pride  one 
naturally  feels  in  looking  well." 

"  And  does  not  the  same  common  decency  and 
natural  pride  argue  as  strongly  in  favour  of  your 
dressing  well  at  home,  and  for  the  eye  of  your  hus- 
band, whose  approval  and  whose  admiration  must 


MY  FORTUNE'S  MADE.  97 

be  dearer  to  you  than  the  approval  and  admiration 
of  the  whole  world?" 

But  he  doesn't  want  to  see  me  rigged  out  in 
}  silks  and  satins  all  the  time.  A  pretty  bill  my 
<  dressmaker  would  have  against  him !  Edward  has 
)  more  sense  than  that,  I  flatter  myself." 

"  Street  or  ball-room  attire  is  one  thing,  Cora, 
and  becoming  home  apparel  another.  We  look  for 
both  in  their  places." 

Thus  I  argued  with  the  thoughtless  young  wife, 
;  but  my  words  made  no  impression.  When  abroad, 
;  she  dressed  with  exquisite  taste,  and  was  lovely  to 
;  look  upon ;  but  at  home,  she  was  careless  and 
\  slovenly,  and  made  it  almost  impossible  for  those 
'  who  saw  her  to  realize  that  she  was  the  brilliant 
t  beauty  they  had  met  in  company  but  a  short  time 
;>  before.  But  even  this  did  not  last  long.  I  noticed. 
<;  after  a  few  months,  that  the  habits  of  home  were 
^  confirming  themselves,  and  becoming  apparent 
;  abroad.  Her  "  fortune  was  made,"  and  why  should 
;>  she  now  waste  time  or  employ  her  thoughts  about 
;  matters  of  personal  appearance  ? 

The  habits  of  Mr.  Douglass,  on  the  contrary,  did  ? 
\  not  change.  He  was  as  orderly  as  before,  and  $ 
i|  dressed  with  the  same  regard  to  neatness.  He  never  I 
appeared  at  the  breakfast-table  in  the  morning  with-  / 
out  being  shaved ;  nor  did  he  lounge  about  in  the  i 
evening  in  his  shirt-sleeves.  The  slovenly  habits  \ 
into  which  Cora  had  fallen  annoyed  him  seriously ;  £ 
and  still  more  so,  when  her  carelessness  about  her 
appearance  began  to  manifest  itself  abroad  as  well 
as  at  home.  When  he  hinted  any  thing  on  the  sub- 
ject, she  did  not  hesitate  to  reply,  in  a  jesting 
9 


98  THE    HOME   MISSION. 


manner,  that  her  fortune  was  made,  and  she  need 
not  trouble  herself  any  longer  about  how  she 
looked. 

Douglass  did  not  feel  very  much  complimented ; 
but  as  he  had  his  share  of  good  sense,  he  saw  that 
to  assume  a  cold  and  offended  manner  would  do  no 
good. 

"  If  your  fortune  is  made,  so  is  mine,"  he  replied 
on  one  occasion,  quite  coolly  and  indifferently. 
Next  morning  he  made  his  appearance  at  the  break- 
fast table  with  a  beard  of  twenty-four  hours'  growth. 

"You  haven't  shaved  this  morning,  dear,"  said 
Cora,  to  whose  eyes  the  dirty-looking  face  of  her 
husband  was  particularly  unpleasant. 

"No,"  he  replied,   carelessly.      "It's  a  serious   | 
trouble  to  shave  every  day." 

"  But  you  look  so  much  better  with  a  cleanly-   I 
shaved  face." 

"Looks  are  nothing — ease  and  comfort  every 
thing,"  said  Douglass. 

"But  common  decency,  Edward." 

"  I  see  nothing  indecent  in  a  long  beard,"  replied 
the  husband. 

Still  Cora  argued,  but  in  vain.  Her  husband 
•went  off  to  his  business  with  his  unshaven  face. 

"I  don't  know  whether  to  shave  or  not,"  said 
Douglass  next  morning,  running  his  hand  over  his 
rough  face,  upon  which  was  a  beard  of  forty-eight  jj 
hours'  growth.  His  wife  had  hastily  thrown  on  a 
wrapper,  and,  with  slip-shod  feet  and  head  like  a 
mop,  was  lounging  in  a  large  rocking-chair,  awaiting 
the  breakfast-bell. 


"  For  mercy's  sake,  Edward,  don't  go  any  longer 


J 


MY  FORTUNE'S  MAI>E.  99 


•with  that  shockingly  dirty  face,"  spoke  up  Cora. 
"  If  you  knew  how  dreadfully  you  look  !" 

"Looks  are  nothing,"  replied  Edward,  stroking 
his  beard. 

"  Why,  what's  come  over  you  all  at  once  ?" 

"  Nothing ;  only  it's  such  a  trouble  to  shave  every 
day." 

"But  you  didn't  shave  yesterday." 

"  I  know ;  I  am  just  as  well  off  to-day  as  if  I  had. 
So  much  saved,  at  any  rate." 

But  Cora  urged  the  matter,  and  her  husband 
finally  yielded,  and  mowed  down  the  luxuriant 
growth  of  beard. 

"  How  much  better  you  do  look  !"  said  the  young 
wife.  "  Now  don't  go  another  day  without  shaving." 

"  But  why  should  I  take  so  much  trouble  about 
mere  looks  ?     I'm  just  as  good  with  a  long  beard 
as  with  a  short  one.     It's  a  great  deal  of  trouble    j! 
to  shave  every  day.     You  can  love  me  just  as  well ;    / 
and  why  need   I   care   about  what   others  say  or    <, 
think?" 

On  the  following  morning,  Douglass  appeared  not 
}  only  with  a  long  beard,  but  with  a  bosom  and  collar 
t  that  were  both  soiled  and  rumpled. 

"  Why,  Edward  !     How  you  do  look  !"  said  Cora.     )' 
\    "  You've  neither  shaved  nor  put  on  a  clean  shirt." 
jl        Edward  stroked  his  face  and  run  his  fingers  along     £ 
i   the  edge  of  his  collar,  remarking,  indifferently,  as 
j   he  did  so — 

"It's  no  matter.  I  look  well  enough.  Thia 
being  so  very  particular  in  dress  is  waste  of  time, 
and  I'm  getting  tired  of  it." 

And  in  this  trim  Douglass  went  off  to  his  busi- 


100  THE   HOME    MISSION. 

ness,  much  to  the  annoyance  of  his  wife,  who  could 
not  Dear  to  see  her  husband  looking  so  slovenly. 

Gradually  the  declension  from  neatness  went  on, 
until  Edward  was  quite  a  match  for  his  wife ;  and 
yet,  strange  to  say,  Cora  had  not  taken  the  hint, 
broad  as  it  was.  In  her  own  person  she  was  as  un- 
tidy as  ever. 

About  six  months  after  their  marriage,  we  invited 
a  few  friends  to  spend  a  social  evening  with  us,  Cora 
and  her  husband  among  the  number.  Cora  came 
alone,  quite  early,  and  said  that  her  husband  was 
very  much  engaged,  and  could  not  come  until  after 
tea.  My  young  friend  had  not  taken  much  pains 
with  her  attire.  Indeed,  her  appearance  mortified 
me,  as  it  contrasted  so  decidedly  with  that  of  the 
other  ladies  who  were  present ;  and  I  could  not  help 
suggesting  to  her  that  she  was  wrong  in  being  so 
indifferent  about  her  dress.  But  she  laughingly 
replied  to  me — 

"You  know  my  fortune's  made  now,  Mrs.  Smith. 
I  can  afford  to  be  negligent  in  these  matters.  It's 
a  great  waste  of  time  to  dress  so  much." 

I  tried  to  argue  against  this,  but  could  make  no 
impression  upon  her. 

About  an  hour  after  tea,  and  while  we  were  all 
engaged  in  pleasant  conversation,  the  door  of  the 
parlour  opened,  and  in  walked  Mr.  Douglass.  At 
first  glance  I  thought  I  must  be  mistaken.  But  no, 
it  was  Edward  himself.  But  what  a  figure  he  did 
cut !  His  uncombed  hair  was  standing  up,  in  stiff 
spikes,  in  a  hundred  different  directions ;  his  face 
coull  not  have  felt  the  touch  of  a  razor  for  two  or 
three  days;  and  he  was  guiltless  of  clean  linen  for 


MY  FORTUNE'S  MADE.  101 


at  least  tho  same  length  of  time.  His  vest  was  soil- 
ed ;  his  boots  unblacked ;  and  there  was  an  unmis- 
!;  takable  hole  in  one  of  his  elbows. 

"  Why,  Edward  !"  exclaimed  his  wife,  with  a  look 
of  mortification  and  distress,  as  her  husband  came 
across  the  room,  with  a  face  in  which  no  conscious- 
ness of  the  figure  he  cut  could  be  detected. 

"  Why,  my  dear  fellow  !  What  is  the  matter?" 
said  my  husband,  frankly ;  for  he  perceived  that  the 
ladies  were  beginning  to  titter,  and  that  the  gentle- 
men were  looking  at  each  other,  and  trying  to  re- 
press their  risible  tendencies ;  and  therefore  deemed 
it  best  to  throw  off  all  reserve  on  the  subject. 

"  The  matter  ?  Nothing's  the  matter,  I  believe. 
Why  do  you  ask?"  Douglass  looked  grave. 

"  Well  may  he  ask,  what's  the  matter  ?"  broke  in 
I  Cora,  energetically.  "  How  could  you  come  here  in 
t  such  a  plight?" 

"In  such  a  plight?"  And  Edward  looked  down 
',t  himself,  felt  his  beard,  and  ran  his  fingers  through 


his   hair.      "  What's    the    matter  ?     Is    any    thing 


wrong 


"  You  look  as  if  you'd  just  waked  up  from  a  nap 
of  a  week  with  your  clothes  on,  and  come  off  with- 
out washing  your  face  or  combing  your  hair,"  said 
my  husband. 

"  Oh  !"  And  Edward's  countenance  brightened  a 
$  little.  Then  he  said  with  much  gravity  of  manner — 
"  I've  been  extremely  hurried  of  late ;  and  only 
•!  left  my  store  a  few  minutes  ago.  I  hardly  thought 
^  it  worth  while  to  go  home  to  dress  up.  I  knew  we 
^  were  all  friends  here.  Besides,  as  my  fortune  it 
;  made" — and  he  glanced  with  a  look  not  to  be  mis- 

9» 


taken  toward  his  wife — "  I  don't  feel  cafled  upon  to 
give  as  much  attention  to  mere  dress  as  formerly. 
Before  I  was  married,  it  was  necessary  to  be  par- 
ticular in  these  matters,  but  now  it's  of  no  conse- 
quence." 

I  turned  toward  Cora.  Her  face  was  like  crim- 
son. In  a  few  moments  she  arose  and  went  quickly 
from  the  room.  I  followed  her,  and  Edward  came 
after  us  pretty  soon.  He  found  his  wife  in  tears, 
and  sobbing  almost  hysterically. 

"I've  got  a  carriage  at  the  door,"  said  he  to  me, 
aside,  half  laughing,  half  serious.  "  So  help  her  on 
with  her  things,  and  we'll  retire  in  disorder." 

"  But  it's  too  bad  in  you,  Mr.  Douglass,"  replied  I. 

"  Forgive  me  for  making  your  house  the  scene  of 
this  lesson  to  Cora,"  he  whispered.  "It  had  to  be 
given,  and  I  thought  I  could  venture  to  trespass  upon 
your  forbearance." 

"  I'll  think  about  that,"  said  I,  in  return. 

In  a  few  minutes  Cora  and  her  husband  retired, 
and  in  spite  of  good  breeding  and  every  thing  else, 
we  all  had  a  hearty  laugh  over  the  matter,  on  my  re- 
turn to  the  parlour,  where  I  explained  the  curious 
little  scene  that  had  just  occurred. 

How  Cora  and  her  husband  settled  the  affair  be- 
tween themselves,  I  never  inquired.  But  one  thing 
is  certain,  I  never  saw  her  in  a  slovenly  dress  after- 
ward, at  home  or  abroad.  She  was  cured. 


THE  GOOD  MATCH. 


"Mr  heart  is  now  at  rest,"  remarked  Mrs.  Presst- 
man  to  her  sister,  Mrs.  Markland.  "Florence  has 
done  so  well.  The  match  is  such  a  good  one." 

Mrs.  Presstman  spoke  with  animation,  but  her  sis- 
ter's countenance  remained  rather  grave. 

"  Mr.  Barker  is  worth  at  least  eighty  thousand 
dollars,"  resumed  Mrs.  Presstman.  "And  my  hus- 
band says,  that  if  he  prospers  in  business  as  he  has 
done  for  the  last  ten  years,  he  will  be  the  richest 
merchant  in  the  city.  Don't  you  think  we  have  been 
fortunate  in  marrying  Florence  so  well?" 

"  So  far  as  the  securing  of  wealth  goes,  Florence 
has  certainly  done  very  well,"  returned  Mrs.  Mark- 
land.  "  But,  surely,  sister,  you  have  a  higher  idea 
)f  marriage  than  to  suppose  that  wealth  in  a  hus- 
band is  the  primary  thing.  The  quality  of  his  mind 
is  of  much  more  importance." 

"Oh,  certainly,  that  is  not  to  be  lost  sight  of. 
Mr.  Barker  is  an  excellent  man.  Every  one  speaks 
well  of  him.  No  one  stands  higher  in  the  commu- 
nity than  he  does." 

"  That  may  be.  But  the  general  estimation  in 
which  a  man  is  held  does  not,  by  any  means,  deter- 
mine his  fitness  to  become  the  husband  of  one  like 
Florence.  I  think  that  when  I  was  here  last  spring, 

103 


104  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


there  was  some  talk  of  her  preference  for  a  young 
physician.  Was  such  really  the  case  ?" 

"  There  was  something  of  that  kind,"  replied  Mrs. 
Presstman,  the  colour  becoming  a  very  little  deeper 
on  her  cheek — "  a  foolish  notion  of  the  girl's.  But 
that  was  broken  off  long  ago.  It  would  not  do.  We 
could  not  afford  to  let  her  marry  a  young  doctor  with 
a  poor  practice.  We  knew  her  to  be  worthy  some- 
thing much  higher,  as  the  result  has  shown." 

"Doctor  Estill,  I  believe,  was  his  name?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  remember  him  very  well — and  liked  him  much. 
Was  Mr.  Barker  preferred  by  Florence  to  Doctor 
Estill?" 

"Why,  yes — no — not  at  first,"  half-stammered 
Mrs.  Presstman.  "  That  is,  you  know,  she  was  fool- 
ish, like  all  young  girls,  and  thought  she  loved  him. 
But  that  passed  away.  She  is  now  as  happy  as  she 
can  be." 

Mrs.  Markland  felt  that  it  was  not  exactly  right  to 
press  this  matter  now  that  the  mischief,  if  any  there 
were,  had  been  done,  and  so  remarked  no  further 
upon  the  subject.  But  the  admission  made  in  her 
sister's  reply  to  her  last  question  pained  her.  It 
corroborated  a  suspicion  that  crossed  her  mind,  when 
she  saw  her  niece,  that  all  was  not  right  within — 
that  the  good  match  which  had  been  made  was  only 
good  in  appearance.  She  had  loved  Florence  for 
the  innocence,  purity,  and  elevation  of  soul  that  so 
sweetly  characterized  her.  She  knew  her  to  be  sus- 
ceptible of  tender  impressions,  and  capable  of  loving 
deeply  an  object  really  worthy  of  her  love.  This 
plant  had  been,  she  feared,  removed  from  the  warm 
_ __.___,-____._______ 


THE    GOOD    VIATCH. 


green-house  of  home,  where  the  earth  had  touched 
tenderly  its  delicate  roots,  while  its  leaves  put  forth 
in  a  genial  air,  and  placed  in  a  hard  soil  and  a  chill- 
ing atmosphere,  still  to  live  on,  but  with  its  beauty 
and  fragrance  gone.  She  might  be  mistaken.  But 
appearances  troubled  her. 

Mrs.  Markland  lived  in  a  neighbouring  city,  and 
was  on  a  visit  to  her  sister.  During  the  two  weeks 
that  elapsed,  while  paying  this  visit,  she  heard  a 
great  deal  about  the  excellent  match  that  Florence 
had  made.  No  one  of  the  acquaintances  of  the  fa- 
mily had  any  thing  to  say  that  was  not  congratula- 
tory. More  than  one  mother  of  an  unmarried  daughter, 
she  had  good  cause  for  concluding,  envied  her  sister 
the  happiness  of  having  the  rich  Mr.  Barker  for  a 
son-in-law.  When  she  parted  with  her  niece,  on  the 
eve  of  her  return  home,  there  were  tears  in  her  mild 
blue  eyes.  It  was  natural — for  Florence  loved  her 
aunt,  and  to  part  with  her  was  painful.  Still,  those  ; 
tears  troubled  Mrs.  Markland.  She  thought  of  them  I 
hours,  and  days,  and  months  after,  as  a  token  that  ff 
all  was  not  right  in  her  gentle  breast. 

Briefly  let  us  now  sketch  a  scene  that  passed 
twenty  years  from  this  period.  Twenty  years  !  That 
is  a  long  time.  Yes — but  it  is  a  period  that  tests  the 
truth  or  falsity  of  the  leading  principles  with  which 
we  set  out  in  life.  Twenty  years  !  Ah  !  how  many, 
even  long  before  that  time  elapses,  prove  the  falla- 
ciousness of  their  hopes  !  discover  the  sandy  founda- 
tion upon  which  they  have  built ! 

Let  us  introduce  Mrs.  Barker.  Her  husband 
has  realized  even  more  than  he  had  hoped  for, 
in  the  item  of  wealth.  He  is  worth  a  million. 


106  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


Rather  a  small  sum  in  his  eye,  if  is  true,  now  that 
he  possesses  it.  And  from  this  very  fact,  its  small- 
ness,  he  is  not  happy — for  is  not  Mr.  T worth 

three   millions  of  dollars?     Mr.  T ,  who  is  no 

better,  if  as  good  as  he  is  ?  But  what  of  Mrs.  i 
Barker  ?  Ah,  yes.  Let  us  see  how  time  has  passed  • 
with  her.  Let  us  see  if  the  hours  have  danced  along  > 
with  her  to  measures  of  glad  music,  or  in  cadence  < 
with  a  pensive  strain.  Has  hers  indeed  been  a  good 
match?  We  shall  see. 

Is  that  sedate-looking  woman,  with  such  a  cold 
expression  upon  her  face,  who  sits    in  that  elabo- 
rately furnished  saloon,  or  parlour,  dreamily  looking 
into  the  glowing  grate,  Mrs.  Barker  ?     Yes,  that  is 
the  woman  who  made  a  good  match.    Can  this  indeed 
;    be  so  ?     I  see,  in  imagination,  a  gentle,  loving  crea- 
/    ture,  whose   eyes  and  ears  are  open  to  all  things 
beautiful  in  creation,  and  whose  heart  is  moved  by 
all  that  is  good  and  true.     Impelled  by  the  very  na- 
ture into  which  she  has  been  born — woman's  nature 
— her  spirit  yearns  for  high,  holy,  interior  compa- 
;.     nionship.     She  enters  into  that  highest,  holiest,  most 
f,     interior  relationship — marriage.  She  must  be  purely 
$     happy.    Is  this  so  ?    Can  the  woman  we  have  intro- 
•;     duced  at  the  end  of  twenty  years  be  the  same  being 
>     with  this  gentle  girl?     Alas  !  that  we. should  have  it 
to  say  that  it  is  so.     There  has  been  no  affliction  to 
;>     produce  this  change — no  misfortune.     The  children 
•;     she  has  borne  are  all  about  her,  and  wealth  has  been 
poured  liberally  into  her  lap.     No  external  wish  has 
been  ungratified.     Why,  then,  should  her  face  wear 
I;     habitually  so  strange  an  expression  as  it  does  ? 

She  had  been  seated  for  more  than  half  an  hour 


XliK    GOOD    MATCH.  107 


in  an  abstract  mood,  when  some  one  came  in.  She 
knew  the  step.  It  was  that  of  her  husband.  But 
she  did  not  turn  to  him,  nor  seem  conscious  of  his 
presence.  He  merely  glanced  toward  his  wife,  and 
then  sat  down  at  some  distance  from  her,  and  took 
up  a  newspaper.  Thus  they  remained  until  a  bell 
announced  the  evening  meal,  when  both  arose  and 
passed  in  silence  to  the  tea-room.  There  they  were 
joined  by  their  four  children,  the  eldest  at  that 
lovely  age  when  the  girl  has  blushed  into  young  wo- 
manhood. All  arranged  themselves  about  the  table, 
the  younger  children  conversing  together  in  an  under 
tone,  but  the  father,  and  mother,  and  Florence,  the 
oldest  child,  remaining  silent,  abstracted,  and  evi- 
dently unhappy  from  some  cause. 

The  mother  and  daughter  eat  but  little,  and  that 
compulsorily.  After  the  meal  was  finished,  the  lat- 
ter retired  to  her  own  apartment,  the  other  children 
remained  with  their  books  in  the  family  sitting-room, 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barker  returned  to  the  parlour. 

"  I  am  really  out  of  all  patience  with  you  and 
Florence!"  the  former  said,  angrily,  as  he  seated 
himself  beside  his  wife,  in  front  of  the  grate.  "  One 
would  think  some  terrible  calamity  were  about  to 
happen." 

Mrs.  Barker  made  no  reply  to  this.  In  a  moment 
or  two  her  husband  went  on,  in  a  dogmatical  tone. 

"  It's  the  very  best  match  the  city  affords.  Show 
me  another  in  any  way  comparable.  Is  not  Lorimer 
worth  at  least  two  millions  ? — and  is  not  Harman  his 
only  son  and  heir  ?  Surely  you  and  the  girl  must 
both  be  beside  yourselves  to  think  of  objecting  for  a 
single  moment." 


108  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  A  good  match  is  not  always  made  so  by  wealtL," 
Mrs.  Barker  returned,  in  a  firm  voice,  compressing 
her  lips  tightly,  as  she  closed  the  brief  sentence. 

"  You  are  beside  yourself,"  said  the  husband,  half 
eneeringly. 

"  Perhaps  I  am,"  somewhat  meekly  replied  Mrs. 
Barker.  Then  becoming  suddenly  excited  from  the 
quick  glancing  of  certain  thoughts  through  her  mind, 
she  retorted  angrily.  Her  husband  did  not  hesitate 
to  reply  in  a  like  spirit.  Then  ensued  a  war  of 
words,  which  ended  in  a  positive  declaration  that 
Florence  should  marry  Harman  Lorimer.  At  this 
the  mother  burst  into  tears  and  left  the  room. 

After  that  declaration  was  made,  Mrs.  Barker  /t 
knew  that  further  opposition  on  her  part  was  useless.  ,• 
Florence  was  gradually  brought  over  by  the  force  of  i; 
angry  threats,  persuasions,  and  arguments,  so  as  > 
finally  to  consent  to  become  the  wife  of  a  man  from  / 
whom  her  heart  turned  with  instinctive  aversion.  ^ 
But  every  one  called  it  such  a  good  match,  and  con-  <; 
gratulated  the  father  and  mother  upon  the  fortunate  [; 
issue. 

What  Mrs.  Barker  suffered  before,  during,  and 
after  the  brilliant  festivities  that  accompanied  her 
tenderly-loved  daughter's  sacrifice,  cannot  all  be 
known.  Her  own  heart's  history  for  twenty  long 
years  came  up  before  her,  and  every  page  of  that' 
history  she  read  over,  with  a  weeping  spirit,  as  the 
history  of  her  sweet  child  for  the  dreary  future. 
How  many  a  leaf  in  her  heart  had  been  touched  by 
the  frost ;  had  withered,  shrunk,  and  dropped  from  i 
affection's  stem — how  many  a  bud  had  failed  to  show  5 
its  promised  petals — how  many  a  blossom  had  drooped  \ 


THE   GOOD    MATCH.  109 


and  died  ere  the  tender  germ  in  its  bosom  could  come 
forth  into  hardy  existence.  Inanimate  golden  leaves, 
and  buds  .  and  blossoms — nay,  even  fruits  were  a  poor 
substitute  for  these.  A  woman's  heart  cannot  be 
satisfied  with  them. 

In  her  own  mind,  obduracy  and  coldness  had  su 
pervened  to  the  first  states  of  disappointed  affection. 
But  her  heart  had  rebelled  through  long,  long  years 
against  the  violence  to  which  it  had  been  subjected— 
and  the  calmness,  or  rather  indifference,  that  at  last 
followed  was  only  like  ice  upon  the  surface  of  a 
stream — the  water  still  flowing  on  beneath.  Death 
to  the  mother  would  have  been  a  willing  sacrifice, 
could  it  have  saved  her  child  from  the  living  death 
that  she  had  suffered.  But  it  would  not.  The  father 
was  a  resolute  tyrant.  Money  was  his  god,  and  to 
that  god  he  offered  up  even  his  child  in  sacrifice. 

Need  the  rambling  hints  contained  in  this  brief 
sketch — this  dim  outline — be  followed  by  any  enforc- 
ing reflections  ?     An  opposite  picture,  full  of  light 
and  warmth,  might  be  drawn,  but  would  it  tend  to    jj 
bring  the  truth  to  clearer  perception,  where  mothers 
— true    mothers — mothers    in    spirit  as  well    as  in    ff 
name — are  those  to  whom  we  hold  up  the  first  pic-    j> 
ture  ?     We  think  not. 

"Wealth,  reputation,  honours,  high  intelligence  in    > 
a  man — all  or  either  of  these — do  not  constitute  him    < 
a  good  match  frr  your  child.     Marriage  is  of  the    ? 
heart — the  blending  of  affection  with  affection,  and 
\    thought  with    thought.     How,  then,  can    one  who 
^    loves  all  that  is  innocent,  and  pure,  and  holy,  be- 
come interiorly  conjoined  with  a  man  who  is  a  gross, 

L VI j 


110  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


selfish  sensualist  ?  a  man  who  finds  happiness  only 
in  the  external  possession  of  •wealth,  or  honours,  or 
in  the  indulgence  of  luxuries?  It  is  impossible !  Take 
away  these,  and  give  her,  in  their  stead,  one  with 
whom  her  affections  can  blend  in  perfect  harmony — 
one  with  whom  she  can  become  united  as  one — and 
earth  will  be  to  her  a  little  heaven. 

In  the  opposite  course,  alas!  the  evil  does  not 
always  stop  with  your  own  child.  The  curse  is  too 
often  continued  unto  the  third  and  fourth  genera- 
tion— yea,  even  through  long  succeeding  ages — to 
eternity  itself !  Who  can  calculate  the  evil  that  may 
flow  from  a  single  perversion  of  the  marriage  union — 
that  is,  a  marriage  entered  into  from  other  than  the 
true  motives?  None  but  God  himself ! 


L 


THE   BROTHER'S  TEMPTATION. 


"  COME,  Henry,"  said  Blanche  Armour  to  hor 
brother,   who    had    seemed    unusually   silent    and     s 
!>    thoughtful  since  tea  time, — "I  want  you  to  read 


while  I  make  this  cap  for  ma." 

"  Excuse  me,  Blanche,  if  you  please,  I  don't  feel    i 
like  reading  to-night,"  the  brother  replied,  shading 
his  face  both  from  the  light  and  the  penetrating 

:    glance  of  his  sister,  as  he  spoke. 

Blanche  did  not  repeat  the  request,  for  it  was  a 

i  habit  with  her  never  to  urge  her  brother ;  nor,  in- 
deed, any  one,  to  do  a  thing  for  which  he  seemed 
disinclined.  She,  therefore,  took  her  work-basket, 
and  sat  down  by  the  centre-table,  without  saying  {f 

|    any  thing  farther,  and  commenced  sewing.    But  she 

\    did  not  feel  quite  easy,  for  it  was  too  apparent  that 
Henry  was  disturbed  about  something.    For  several 
days  he  had  seemed  more 'than  usually  reserved  and 
thoughtful.   *Now  he  was  gloomy  as  well  as  thought-    \ 
fill.     Of  course,  there  was  a  cause  for  this.     And     \ 
as  this  cause  was  hidden  from  Blanche,  she  could 
not  but  feel  troubled.      Several  times  during  the 
evening  she  attempted  to  draw  him  out  into  con- 
versation, but  he  would  reply  to  her  in  monosylla- 
bles, and  then  fall  back  into  his  state  of  silent  ab- 
straction of  mind.     Once  OK  twice  he  got  up  and 
walked  across  the  floor,  and  then  again  resumed  his    $ 
seat,  as  if  he  had  compelled  himself  to  sit  down  by 

ill  < 


THE   HOME    MISSION. 


a  strung  effort  of  the  will.  Thus  the  time  passed 
away,  until  the  usual  hour  of  retiring  for  the  night 
came,  when  Blanche  put  up  her  work,  and  rising 
from  her  chair  by  the  centre-table,  went  to  Henry, 
and  stooping  down  over  him,  as  he  lay  half  reclined 
upon  the  sofa,  kissed  him  tenderly,  and  murmured 
an  affectionate  "good  night." 

"  Good  night,  dear,"  he  returned,  without  rising 
or  adding  another  word. 

Blanche  lingered  a  moment,  and  then,  with  a  re- 
pressed sigh,  left  the  room,  and  retired  to  her  cham- 
ber. She  could  not  understand  her  brother's  strange 
mood.  For  him  to  be  troubled  and  silent  was  alto- 
gether new.  And  the  cause  ?  Why  should  he  con- 
ceal it  from  her,  toward  whom,  till  now,  he  had  never 
withheld  any  thing  that  gave  him  either  pleasure  or 
pain? 

The  moment  Blanche  retired,  the  whole  manner 
of  Henry  Armour  changed.  He  arose  from  the  sofa 
and  commenced  walking  the  floor  with  rapid  steps, 
while  the  deep  lines  upon  his  forehead  and  his 
strongly  compressed  lips  showed  him  to  be  labouring 
under  some  powerful  mental  excitement.  He  con- 
tinued to  walk  thus  hurriedly  backward  and  for- 
ward for  the  space  of  half  an  hour;  when,  as  if 
some  long  debated  point  had  been  at  last  decided, 
he  grasped  the  parlour  door  with  a  firm  hand,  threw 
it  open,  took  from  the  rack  his  hat,  cloak,  and  cane, 
and  in  a  few  moments  was  in  the  street. 

The  jar  of  the  street  door,  as  it  closed,  was 
'distinctly  heard  by  BJanche,  and  this  caused  the 
troubled  feeling  which  had  oppressed  her  all  the 
evening,  to  change  into  one  of  anxiety.  Where  could 

^ ^^ ___^ t 


THE  BROTHER'S  TEMPTATION.  113 


Henry  be  &><?.£  at  this  late  hour  ?  He  rarely  stayed 
out  beyond  ten  o'clock ;  and  she  had  never  before 
known  him  to  icwr*  the  house  after  the  usual  bed- 
time of  the  family.  His  going  out  had,  of  course, 
something  to  do  witb  }iis  unhappy  mood.  What 
could  it  mean  ?  She  coxilrv  not  suspect  him  of  any 
wrong.  She  knew  him  to  t«-  \oo  pure-minded  and 
honourable.  But  there  wa^s  mystery  connected 
with  his  conduct — and  this  trcnbifcJ  her.  She  had 
just  laid  aside  a  book,  that  she  had  Uken  up  for  the 
purpose  of  reading  a  few  pages  before  i^tiriag  for  the 


\    night,  and  commenced  disrobing  herself,  when  the 

>    sound  of  the  door  closing  after  her  brottrr  startled     ! 

J!   her,  and  caused  her  to  pause  and  think,     fehe  could 

lt  not  now  retire,  for  to  sleep  would  be  impossible. 
She,  therefore,  drew  a  shawl  about  her,  and  again 
resumed  her  book,  determined  to  sit  up  until  Henry's 
return.  But  little  that  she  read  made  a  very  dis- 
tinct impression  on  her  mind.  Her  thoughts  were 
with  her  brother,  whom  she  tenderly  loved,  and  had 

\    learned  to  confide  in  as  one  of  pure  sentiments  and 

|    firm  principles. 

While  Henry  Armour  still  lingered  at  home  in 

;  moody  indecision  of  mind,  a  small  party  of  young 
men  were  assembled  in  an  upper  room  of  a  celebrated 
refectory,  drinking,  smoking,  and  indulging  in  con- 
versation, a  large  portion  of  which  would  have  shock- 
ed a  modest  ear.  They  were  all  members  of  wealthy 
and  respectable  families.  Some  had  passed  their 
majority,  and  others  still  lingered  between  nineteen 
and  twenty-one, — that  dangerous  age  for  a  young 
man — especially  if  he  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  have 
little  to  do,  and  a  liberal  supply  of  pocket  money. 


THE   HOME    MISSION. 


"  Confound  the  fellow  !  What  keeps  him  so  long  ?" 
said  one  of  the  company,  looking  at  his  watch     "  It's 
nearly  ten  o'clock,  and  he  has  not  made  his  appear-    \ 
ance." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  ?   Armour  ?"  asked  another.    ^ 

"  Certainly  I  do.  He  promised  to  join  us  again  !; 
to-night." 

"  So  he  did !  But  I'll  bet  a  pewter  sixpence  he  j 
won't  come." 

"Why?" 

"  His  sister  won't  let  him.  Don't  you  know  that  ; 
he  is  tied  to  her  apron  string  almost  every  night,  j! 
the  silly  fellow  !  Why  don't  he  be  a  man,  and  enjoy  ; 
life  as  it  goes  ?" 

"  Sure  enough  !  What  is  life  worth,  if  its  plea-  ^ 
sures  are  all  to  be  sacrificed  for  a  sister?"  returned  '< 
the  other,  sneeringly. 

"Here!  Pass  that  champagne,"  interrupted  one  ;j 
of  the  company.  "  Let  Harry  Armour  break  his  ; 
engagement  for  a  sister  if  he  likes.  That  needn't  •; 
mar  our  enjoyment.  There  are  enough  of  us  here  ! 
for  a  regular  good  time." 

"  Here's  a  toast,"  cried  another,  as  he  lifted  a  1 
sparkling  glass  to  his  lips — "  Pleasant  dreams  to  the  ; 
old  folks!" 

"  Good  !  Good  !  Good  !"  passed  round  the  table, 
about  which  the  young  revellers  were  gathered,  and 
each  drained  a  glass  to  the  well  understood  senti- 
ment. 

In  the  mean  time,  young  Armour  had  left  his 
home,  having  decided  at  last,  and  after  a  long  strug- 
gle with  himse1^  to  join  this  gay  company,  as  he 
had  agreed  to  do.  It  was,  in  fact,  a  little  club, 


THE    BROTHERS    TEMPTATION. 


of  its  members. 


',  Formed  a  short  time  previous,  the  members  of  which 
met  once  a  week  to  eat,  drink,  smoke,  and  corrupt 
each  other  by  ridiculing  those  salutary  moral  re- 
straints which,  once  laid  aside,  leave  the  thoughtless 
youth  in  imminent  danger  of  ruin. 

Henry  Armour  had  been  blessed  with  a  sister  a    j 

year  or  two  older  than  himself,  who  loved  him  ten-    ; 

derly.     The  more  rapid  development  of  her  mind,    \ 

as  well  as, body,  had  given  her  the  appearance  of    ^ 

'<    maturity  that  enabled  her  to  exercise  a  strong  in-    > 

>    fluence  over  him.     Of  the  dangers  that  beset  the    <j 

J    path  of  a  young  man,  she  knew  little  or  nothing.    <; 

The  constant  effort  which  she  made  to  render  home    f> 

i    agreeable  to  her  brother  by  consulting  his  tastes,    J 

and  entering  into  every  thing  that  seemed  to  give 
i  him  pleasure,  did  not,  therefore,  spring  from  a  wish 
£  to  guard  him  from  the  world's  allurements ;  it  was 
I  the  spontaneous  result  of  a  pure  fraternal  affection. 
<;  But  it  had  the  right  effect.  To  him,  there  was  no 
place  like  home  ;  nor  any  smile  so  alluring,  or  voice 
\  so  sweet,  as  his  sister's.  And  abroad,  no  company 
possessed  a  perfect  charm,  unless  Blanche  were  one 


This  continued  until  Henry  gained  his  twenty- 
second  year,  when,  as  a  law  student,  he  found  him- 
self thrown  more  and  more  into  the  company  of 
\  young  men  of  his  own  age,  and  the  same  standing 
in  society.  An  occasional  ride  out  with  one  and 
another  of  these,  at  which  times  an  hour  at  least  was 
always  spent  in  a  public  house,  opened  to  him  new 
scenes  in  life,  and  for  a  young  man  of  lively,  buoy- 
ant mind,  not  altogether  unattractive.  That  there 
was  danger  in  these  paths  he  did  not  attempt  to 


F 

i      116  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


disguise  from  himself.  More  than  one,  or  two,  or 
three,  whom  he  met  on  almost  every  visit  he  made 
to  a  fashionable  resort  for  young  men,  about  five 
mdes  from  the  city,  showed  too  strong  indications  of 
having  passed  beyond  the  bounds  of  self-control,  as 
well  in  their  use  of  wines  and  stronger  drinks  as  in 
their  conduct,  which  was  too  free  from  those  exter- 
nal decent  restraints  that  we  look  for  even  in  men 
who  make  no  pretensions  to  virtue.  But  he  did  not 
fear  for  himself.  The  exhibitions  which  these  made 
of  themselves  instinctively  disgusted  him.  Still,  he 
did  not  perceive  that  he  was  less  and  less  shocked  I; 
at  some  things  he  beheld,  and  more  than  at  first  in-  J 
clined  to  laugh  at  follies  which  verged  too  nearly  >> 
upon  moral  delinquencies. 

Gradually  his  circle  of  acquaintance  with  young  \ 
men  of  the  gay  class  extended,  and  a  freer  partici-  > 
pation  with  them  in  many  of  their  pleasures  came  \ 
as  a  natural  consequence. 

"  Come,"  said  one  of  them  to  him,  as  the  two  met  ^ 
j  in  the  street,  by  accident,  one  evening, — "  I  want  !; 
;',  you  to  go  with  me." 

\        "But  why  should  I  go  with  you?     Or,  rather,    ? 
;>    where  are  you  going?"  asked  Armour. 

"  To  meet  some  of  our  friends  down  at  C 's,"    j; 

replied  the  young  man. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  there  ?"  farther  in-  \ 
quired  Armour. 

"  Nothing  more  -than  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine,  and  < 
have  some  pleasant  chit-chat.  So  come  along." 

"  Will  I  be  welcome  ?" 

"  Certainly  you  will.    I'll  guarantee  that.     Some 
half  dozen  of  us  have  formed  a  little  club,  and  each 


THE  BROTHER'S  TEMPTATION.  117 


member  has  the  privilege  of  inviting  any  one  he 
pleases.  To-night  I  invite  you,  and  on  the  next 
evening  I  expect  to  see  you  present,  not  as  a  guest, 
but  as  a  member.  So  come  along,  and  see  how  you 
like  us." 

Armour  had  no  definite  object  in  view.  He  ha,, 
walked  out,  because  he  felt  rather  listless  at  home, 
Blanche  having  retired  with  a  sick  headache.  It 
required,  therefore,  no  persuasion  to  induce  him  to 

yield  to  the  friend's  invitation.  Arrived  at  C 's, 

a  fashionable  house  of  refreshment,  the  two  young 
men  passed  up  stairs  and  entered  one  of  the  private 
apartments  of  the  house,  which  they  found  hand- 
somely furnished  and  brilliantly  lighted.  In  this, 
gathered  around  a  circular,  or  rather  oblong  table, 
were  five  or  six  young  men,  nearly  all  of  them  well 
known  to  Armour.  On  the  table  were  bottles  of 
wine  and  glasses — the  latter  filled. 

"  Just  in  time  !"  cried  the  president  of  the  club. 
"  Henry  Armour,  I  bid  you  welcome !  Here's  a 
place  waiting  for  you,"  placing  his  hand  upon  a  chair 
by  his  side  as  he  spoke.  "And  now,"  as  Armour 
seated  himself,  "let  me  fill  your  glass.  We  were 
waiting  for  a  sentiment  to  find  its  way  out  of  some 
brain  as  you  came  in,  and  our  brimming  glasses  had 
Stood  untasted  for  more  than  a  minute.  Can't  you 
help  us  to  a  toast?" 

"  Here's  to  good  fellowship !"  said  Armour,  prompt- 
ly lifting  his  glass,  and  touching  it  to  that  of  the 
president. 

"  To  be  drunk  standing,"  added  the  president. 

AH  rose  on  the  instant,  and  drank  with  mock 
ilemnity  to  the  sentiment  of  their  guest. 


^.-^^--S.-.^V-'1 

118  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


Then  followed  brilliant  flashes  of  wit,  or  what 
thought  to  be  wit.     To  these  succeeded  the  song, 
the  jest,  the  story, — and  to  these  again  the  spark- 
ling wine-cup.     Gayly  thus  passed  the  hours,  until 
midnight  stole  quietly  upon  the  thoughtless  revel-    < 
lers.     Surprised,  on  reference  to  his  watch,  to  find    ; 
that  it  was  one  o'clock,  Armour  arose  and  begged  to    < 
be  excused. 

"  I  move  that  our  guest  be  excused  on  one  con-  jj 
dition,"  said  the  friend  who  had  brought  him  to  the  J 
company.  "  And  that  is,  on  his  promise  to  meet  \ 
with  us  again,  on  this  evening  next  week." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  the  condition  ?"  asked  the 
president,  who,  like  nearly  all  of  the  rest,  was  rather 
the  worse  for  the  wine  he  had  taken,  looking  at 
Armour  as  he  spoke. 

"I  agree  to  it  with  pleasure,"  was  the  prompt 
reply. 

"Another  drink  before  you  go,  then,"  said  the 
president,  "  and  I  will  give  the  toast.  Fill  up  your 
glasses." 

The  bottle  again  passed  round  the  table. 

"  Here's  to  a  good  fellow !"  was  the  sentiment 
announced.  It  was  received  standing.  Armour 
then  retired  with  bewildered  senses.  The  gay  scene 
that  had  floated  before  his  eyes,  and  in  which  himself 
had  been  an  actor,  and  the  freedom  with  which  he 
had  taken  wine,  left  him  confused,  almost  in  regard 
to  his  own  identity.  He  did  not  seem  to  himself 
the  same  person  he  had  been  a  few  hours  before. 
A  new  world  had  opened  before  him,  and  he  had, 
almost  involuntarily,  entered  into,  and  become  a  citi- 
zen of  that  world.  Long  after  he  had  reached  his 


THE   BROTHER'S   TEMPTATION.  119 

i 

t 

i    home,  and  retired  to  his  bed,  did  his  imagination 

;  revel  amid  the  scenes  he  had  just  left.  In  sleep, 
too,  fancy  was  busy.  But  here  came  a  change. 

\  Serpents  would  too  often  glide  across  the  table 
around  which  the  gay  company,  himself  a  member, 
were  assembled;  or  some  other  sudden  and  more 
appalling  change  scatter  into  fragments  the  bright 

\    phantasnia  of  his  dreams. 

The  sober  morning  found  him  in  a  soberer  mood. 
Calm,  cold,  unimpassioned  reflection  came.  What 
had  he  been  doing  ?  What  path  had  he  entered ; 
and  whither  did  it  lead  ?  These  were  questions  that  ] 

j  would  intrude  themselves,  and  clamour  for  an  answer. 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  endeavoured  again  to  sleep. 
Waking  thoughts  were  worse  than  the  airy  terrors 
which  had  visited  him  in  sleep.  At  length  he  arose, 

}'    with  dull  pains  in  his  head,  and  an  oppressive  slug- 

/    gishness  of  the  whole  body.     But  more  painful  than     \ 
his  own  reflections,  or  the  physical  consequences  of 
the  last  night's  irregularity,  was  the  thought  of  meet-     \ 
ing  Blanche,  and  bearing  the  glance  of  her  innocent 

!eyes.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  among  the  impure,  jj 
— and  worse,  that  he  had  enjoyed  their  impure  sen-  ;> 
t  timents,  and  indulged  with  them  in  excess  of  wine.  \ 
£  The  taint  was  upon  him,  and  the  pure  mind  of  bin  \ 
\  sister  must  instinctively  perceive  it.  These  thoughts 
•)  made  him  wretched.  He  really  dreaded  to  meet  > 
;  her.  But  this  could  not  be  avoided. 

"You  do  not  look  well,  brother,"  said  Blanche,     / 
almost  as  soon  as  she  saw  him. 

"  I  am  not  well,"  he  replied,  avoiding  her  steady 
look.  "My  head  aches,  and  I  feel  dull  and 
heavy." 


120  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


'•^•^-----^ 


aas  caused  it,  brother?"  the  affectionate  ^ 
girl  asked,  with  a  look  and  voice  of  real  concern. 

Now  this  was,  of  all  others,  the  question  that  ? 

Henry  was  least  prepared  to  answer.     He  could  not  \ 

utter  a  direct  falsehood.     From  that  his  firm  prin-  £ 

ciples   shrunk.     Nor  could  he   equivocate,  for    he  ;j 

considered  equivocation  little  better  than  a  direct  5 

falsehood.     "  Why  should  I  wish  to  conceal  any  part  > 

of  my  conduct  from  her  ?"  he  asked  himself,  in  his  ; 

dilemma.     But  the  answer  was  instant  and  conclu-  I; 

sive.     His  participation  in  the  revelry  of  the  last  I 

nigljt  was  a  thing  not  to  be  whispered  in  her  ear.  \ 

Not  being  prepared,  then,  to  tell  the  truth,   and  i 

shrinking  from  falsehood  and  equivocation,  Armour  £ 

preferred  silence  as  the  least  evil  of  the  three.    The  j 

question  of  Blanche  was  not,  therefore,  answered.  J 

At  the  breakfast-table,  his  father  and  mother  re-  j> 

marked  upon  his  appearance.     To  this,  he  merely  j 

replied  that  he  was  not  well.     As  soon  as  the  meal  ( 

was  over,  he  went  out,  glad  to  escape  the  eye  of  jj 

Blanche,  which,  it  seemed  to  him,  rested  searchingly  ! 
upon  him  all  the  while. 

A  walk  of  half  an  hour  in  the  fresh  morning  air 
dispelled  the  dull  pain  in  his  head,  and  restored  his 

whole  system  to  a  more  healthy  tone.     This  drove  > 

away,  to  some  extent,  the  oppressive  feeling  of  self-  ' 

condemnation  he  had  indulged.     The  scenes  of  the  < 

previous  evening,  though  silly  enough  for  sensible  « 

young  men  to  engage  in,  seemed  less  objectionable  |j 

than  they  had  appeared  to  him  on  his  first  review.  I 

To  laugh  involuntarily  at  several  remembered  jests  ! 
and  stories,  the  points  of  which  were  not  exactly  the 
most  chaste  or  reverential,  marked  the  change  that 


U^w-W.^V.'-V 

THE  BROTHER'S  TEMPTATION. 


a  short  period  had  produced  in  his  state  of  mind. 
During  that  day,  he  did  not  fall  in  with  any  of  hia 
wild  companions  of  the  last  evening,  too  many  of 
whom  had  already  fairly  entered  the  road  to  ruin. 
The  evening  was  spent  at  home,  in  the  society  of 
Blanche.  He  read  while  she  sewed,  or  he  turned 
for  her  the  leaves  of  her  music  book,  or  accompanied 
her  upon  the  flute  while  she  played  him  a  favourite 
air  upon  the  piano.  Conversation  upon  books, 
music,  society,  and  other  topics  of  interest,  filled  up 
the  time  not  occupied  in  these  mental  recreations, 
and  added  zest,  variety,  and  unflagging  interest  to 
the  gently-passing  hours.  On  the  next  evening 
they  attended  a  concert,  and  on  the  next  a  party. 
On  that  succeeding,  Henry  went  out  to  see  a  friend 
of  a  different  character  from  any  of  those  with  whom 
he  had  passed  the  hours  a  few  nights  previous — a 
friend  about  his  own  age,  of  fixed  habits  and  prin- 
ciples, who,  like  himself,  was  preparing  for  the  bar. 
With  him  he  spent  a  more  rational  evening  than 
with  the  others,  and,  what  was  better,  no  sting  was 
left  behind. 

Still,  young  Armour  could  never  think  of  the 
"club"  without  having  his  mind  thrown  into  a 
tumult.  It  awoke  into  activity  opposing  principles. 
Good  and  evil  came  in  contact,  and  battled  for  su- 
premacy. There  was  in  his  mind  a  clear  conviction 
that  to  indulge  in  dissipation  of  that  character, 
would  be  injurious  both  to  moral  and  physical  health. 
And  yet,  having  tasted  of  the  delusive  sweets,  he 
was  tempted  to  further  indulgence  Meeting  with 
ome  two  or  three  of  the  "  members  '  during  the 
Week,  and  listening  to  their  extravagant  praise  of 


122  lEOHE   MISSION. 


the  "  club,"  and  the  pleasure  of  uniting  in  unre- 
strained social  intercourse,  made  •warm  by  generous 
wine,  tended  to  make  more  active  the  contest  going 
on  within  —  for  the  good  principles  that  had  been 
stored  up  in  his  mind  were  not  to  be  easily  silenced. 
Their  hold  upon  his  character  was  deep.  They  had 
entered  into  its  warp  and  woof,  and  were  not  to  be 
eradicated  or  silenced  in  a  moment.  As  the  time 
for  the  next  meeting  of  the  club  approached,  this 
'<  battle  grew  more  violent.  The  condition  into  which 
i.  it  had  brought  him  by  the  arrival  of  the  night  on 
which  he  had  promised  again  to  join  his  gay  friends, 
the  reader  has  already  seen.  He  was  still  unable 
to  decide  his  course  of  action.  Inclination  prompted  s 
him  to  go  ;  good  principles  opposed.  "  But  then  1 
have  passed  my  word  that  I  would  go,  and  my  word 
must  be  inviolable."  Here  reason  came  in  to  the 
aid  of  his  inclinations,  and  made  in  their  favour  a 
strong  preponderance. 

We  have  seen  that,  yet  undecided,  he  lingered  at 
home,  but  in  a  state  of  mind  strangely  different  from 
any  in  which  his  sister  had  ever  seen  him.  Still 
debating  the  question,  he  lay,  half  reclined  upon  the 
sofa,  when  Blanche  touched  her  innocent  lips  to  his, 
and  murmured  a  tender  good-night.  That  kisa 
passed  through  his  frame  like  an  electric  current. 
It  came  just  as  his-  imagination  had  pictured  an 
impure  image,  and  scattered  it  instantly.  But  no 
decision  of  the  question  had  yet  been  made,  and  the 
withdrawal  of  Blanche  only  took  off  an  external 
restraint  from  his  feelings.  He  quietly  arose  and 
commenced  pacing  the  floor.  This  he  continued  for 
some  time.  At  last  rhe  decision  was  made. 


THE  BROTHER'S  T^TATIOX.  123 


"I  have  passed  my  word,  and  that  ends  it,"  said 
he,  and  instantly  left  the  house.  Without  permit- 
ting himself  to  review  the  matter  again,  although  a 
voice  within  asked  loudly  to  be  heard,  he  walked 
hastily  in  the  direction  of  the  club-room.  In  ten 
minutes  he  gained  the  door,  opened  it  without  paus- 
ing, and  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  wild  company 
within.  His  entrance  was  greeted  with  shouts  of 
welcome,  and  the  toast,  "  Here's  to  a  good  fellow !" 
with  which  he  had  parted  from  them,  was  repeated 
on  his  return,  all  standing  as  it  was  drunk. 

To  this  followed  a  sentiment  that  cannot  be  re- 
peated here.  It  was  too  gross.  All  drunk  to  it 
but  Armour.  He  could  not,  for  it  involved  a  foul 
slander  upon  the  other  sex,  and  he  had  a  sister 
whose  pure  kiss  was  yet  warm  upon  his  lips.  The 
individual  who  proposed  the  toast  marked  this 
omission,,  and  pointed  it  out  by  saying — 

"  What's  the  matter,  Harry  ?  Is  not  the  wine 
good?" 

The  colour  mounted  to  the  young  man's  face  as 
he  replied,  with  a  forced  smile — 

"Yes,  much  better  than  the  sentiment." 

"  What  ails  the  sentiment  ?"  asked  the  propounder 
of  it,  in  a  tone  of  affected  surprise. 

"  I  have  a  sister,"  was  the  brief,  firm  reply  of 
Armour. 

"  So  Charley,  here,  was  just  saying,"  retorted 
the  other,  with  a  merry  laugh ;  "  and,  what  is  more, 
that  he'd  bet  a  sixpence  you  were  tied  to  her  apron- 
string,  arid  would  not  be  here  to-night !  Ha  !  ha  !" 

The  effect  of  this  upon  the  mind  of  Armour  was 
decisive.  He  loved,  nay,  almost  revered  his  sister. 


124  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


She  had  becc  like  an  angel  of  innocence  about  hia 
path  from  ea?ly  years.  He  knew  her  to  be  as  pure 
as  the  mountain  snow-flake.  Arid  yet  that  sister's 
influence  over  him  was  sneered  at  by  one  who  had 
just  uttered  a  foul-mouthed  slander  upon  her  whole 
sex.  The  scales  fell  instantly  from  his  eyes.  He 
saw  the  dangerous  ground  upon  which  he  stood ; 
while  the  character  of  his  associates  appeared  in  a 
new  light.  They  were  on  a  road  that  he  did  not 
wish  to  travel.  There  were  serpents  concealed 
amid  the  flowers  that  sprung  along  their  path,  and 
he  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  their  poisonous  fangs. 
Quick  as  a  flash  of  light,  these  things  passed  through 
his  mind,  and  caused  him  to  act  with  instant  resolu- 
tion. Rising  from  the  chair  he  had  already  taken, 
he  retired,  without  a  word,  from  the  room.  A 
sneering  laugh  followed  him,  but  he  either  heard  it 
not  or  gave  it  no  heed. 

The  book  which  Blanche  resumed  after  she  had  J 
heard  her  brother  go  out,  soon  ceased  to  interest  J 
her.  She  was  too  much  troubled  about  him  to  be  ^ 
able  to  fix  her  mind  on  any  thing  else.  His  sin-  ! 
gularly  disturbed  state,  and  the  fact  of  his  having  £ 
left  the  house  at  that  late  hour,  caused  her  to  feel 
great  uneasiness.  This  was  beginning  to  excite  her  ; 
imagination,  and  to  cause  her  to  fancy  many  reasons  < 
for  his  strange  conduct,  none  of  which  were  calcu-  ^ 
lated  in  any  degree  to  allay  the  anxiety  she  felt. 
Anxiety  was  fast  verging  upon  serious  alarm,  when 
she  heard  the  sound  of  footsteps  approaching  the 
house.  She  listened  breathlessly.  Surely  it  was 
the  sound  of  Henry's  footsteps  !  Yes  !  Yes !  It 
was  indeed  her  brother.  The  tears  gushed  from  her 


THE   HOME   OF   TASTE.  125 


eyes  as  she  heard  him  enter  below  and  pass  up  to 
his  chamber.  He  was  safe  from  harm,  and  for  this 
her  heart  lifted  itself  up  in  fervent  thankfulness ! 
How  near  he  had  been  to  falling,  that  pure-minded 
maiden  never  knew,  nor  how  it  had  been  her  imagt 
and  the  remembrance  of  her  parting  kiss  that  had 
saved  him  in  the  moment  of  his  greatest  danger. 
Happy  he  who  is  blest  with  such  a  sister !  And 
happier  still,  if  her  innocence  be  suffered  to  over- 
shadow him  in  the  hours  of  temptation ! 


THE  HOME  OF  TASTE. 


THERE  are  three  words,  in  the  utterance  of  which 
more  power  over  the  feelings  is  gained  than  in  the 
utterance  of  any  other  words  in  the  language. 
These  are  "Mother,"  "Home,"  and  "Heaven." 
Each  appeals  to  a  different  emotion — each  bears 
influence  over  the  heart  from  the  cradle  to  the 
grave. — And  just  in  the  degree  that  this  influence 
is  active,  are  man's  best  interests  secured  for  time 
and  eternity. 

Only  of  "home"  do  we  here  intend  to  speak; 
and,  in  particular,  as  to  the  influence  of  the  home 
of  taste.  We  hear  much,  in  these  days,  of  enlarging 
the  sphere  of  woman's  social  duties ;  as  if,  in  tho 
sphere  of  home,  nothing  remained  to  be  done,  and 
she  must  either  fold  her  hands  in  idleness,  or  step 
il* 


126  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


foith  to  engage  with  man  in  life's  sterner  conflict*. 
But  it  is  not  true  that  our  homes  are  as  they  might 
be,  if  their  presiding  genius  fully  comprehended  all 
that  was  needed  to  make  home  what  the  word  im- 
plies. Among  those  in  poorer  circumstances,  this 
is  especially  so.  They  are  too  apt  to  regard  matters 
of  taste  as  mere  superfluities ;  to  speak  lightly  of 
order,  neatness,  and  ornament;  to  think  time  and 
money  spent  on  such  things  as  useless.  But  this  is  «j 
a  serious  mistake,  involving,  often,  the  most  lament-  I 
ahle  consequences. 

If  we  expect  our  children  to  grow  up  with  a  love  £ 
for  things  pure  and  orderly,  we  must  surround  them  i 
with  the  representations  thereof  in  the  homes  where  ^ 
first  impressions  are  formed.  The  mind  rests  upon  j 
and  is  moulded  by  things  external  to  a  far  greater  j; 
extent  than  many  suppose.  These  are  not  only  a  |> 
mirror,  reflecting  all  that  passes  before  the  surface,  but 
a  highly  sensitive  mirror,  that,  like  the  Daguerreotype 
plate,  retains  the  image  it  receives.  If  the  image 
be  orderly  and  beautiful,  it  will  ever  have  power  to 
excite  orderly  and  beautiful  thoughts  in  the  mind ; 
but  if  it  be  impure  and  disorderly,  its  lasting  in- 
fluence will  be  debasing.  If  you  meet  with  a  coarse, 
vulgar-minded  man  or  woman,  and  are  able  to  trace 
back  the  thread  of  life  until  the  period  of  early 
years,  you  will  be  sure  to  find  the  existence  of  coarse 
and  vulgar  influences ;  and,  in  most  cases,  the  oppo- 
site will  alike  be  found  to  hold  good. 

There  is  no  excuse  for  disorder  in  a  household,  no 
matter  how  small  or  how  low  the  range  of  income, 
but  idleness  or  indifference.  The  time  required  to 
maintain  neatness,  order,  and  cleanliness,  is  small, 


THE    HOME   OF   TASTE. 


27    \ 


if  the  will  is  active  and  the  hands  prompt.  Every 
home,  even  the  poorest,  may  become  a  home  of  taste, 
and  present  order  and  forms  of  beauty,  if  there  is 
only  a  willing  purpose  in  the  mind. 

It  is  often  charged  upon  men — particularly  opera- 
tives with  low  wages — that  they  do  not  love  their 
homes,  preferring  to  spend  their  eiening  hours  in 
bar-rooms,  or  wandering  about  with  other  men  as 
little  attracted  by  the  household  sphere  as  themselves, 
until  the  time  for  rest.  If  you  were  to  go  into  the 
homes  of  such,  in  most  cases,  you  would  hardly 
wonder  at  the  aversion  manifested.  The  dirty, 
disordered  rooms,  which  their  toiling  wives  deem  it 
a  waste  of  time  and  labour  to  make  tidy  and  com- 
fortable for  their  reception,  it  would  be  a  perversion 
to  call  homes.  Home  attracts ;  but  these  repel. 
And  so,  with  a  feeling  of  discomfort,  the  men  wan- 
der away,  fall  into  temptation,  and  usually  spend, 
in  self-indulgence,  money  that  otherwise  would  have 
gone  to  increase  home  comforts,  if  there  had  been 
any  to  increase.  And  so  it  is,  in  its  degree,  in  the 
homes  of  every  class.  The  more  pleasant,  orderly,  and  <; 
tasteful  home  is  made,  in  all  its  departments  and  asso-  \ 
ciations,  the  stronger  is  its  attractive  power,  and  the  (t 
more  potent  its  influence  over  those  who  are  required  f; 
to  go  forth  into  the  world  and  meet  its  thousand  al-  j 
lurements.  If  every  thing  is  right  there,  it  will  \ 
surely  draw  them  back,  with  a  steady  retraction,  ff 
through  all  their  absent  moments,  and  they  will  feel,  /, 
on  repassing  the  threshold,  that,  in  the  wide,  wide 
world,  there  is  no  spot  to  them  so  full  of  blessings. 

What  true  woman  does  not  aspire  to  be  the  genius 
of  such  a  home  ? 

J 


THE  TWO  SYSTEMS, 


"  IT'S  no  use  to  talk ;  I  can't  do  it.  The  idea  of 
punishing  a  child  in  cold  blood  makes  me  shiver  all 
over.  I  certainly  think  that,  in  the  mind  of  any  one 
who  can  do  it,  there  must  be  a  latent  vein  of  cruelty." 

This  remark  was  made  by  Mrs.  Stanley  to  her 
friend  and  visiter  Mrs.  Noland. 

"  I  have  known  parents,"  she  continued,   "  who 
would  go  about  executing  some  punishment  with  a 
coolness  and  deliberation  that  to  me  was  frightful. 
No  promise,  no  appeal,  no  tear  of  alarm  or  agony,    \ 
from  the  penitent  little  culprit,  would  have  the  least    < 
effect.     The  law  must  be  fulfilled  even  to  the  jot  and    \ 
tittle." 

"  The  disobedient  child,  doubtless,  knew  the  law," 
remarked  Mrs.  Noland. 

"  Perhaps  so.     But  even  if  it  did,  great  allowance    ^ 
ought  to  be  made  for  the  ardor  with  which  children    ; 
seek  the  gratification  of  their  desires,  and  the  readi- 
ness with  which  they  forget." 

"  No  parent  should  lay  down  a  law  not  right  k.  > 
itself;  nor  one  obedience  to  which  was  riot  good  for  5 
the  child." 

"  But  it  is  very  hard  to  dc  this      We  have  not  the    \ 

s  128 

V^-Wt--— -»^W.«^-«-">-^^_-VWWW^_^^Ww-*^w.^w^~,-w-. 


THE   T\\0   SYSTEMS.  129 

wisdom  of  Solomon.     Every  day,  nay,  almost  every 
hour,  we  err  in  judgment ;  and  especially  in  a  matter 
so  little  understood  as  the  management  of  children." 
"  Better,  then,  have  very  few  laws,  and  them  of 

<  the  clearest  kind.     But,  having  them,  implicit  obe- 
}    dience  should  be  exacted.  At  least,  that  is  my  rule." 

"And  you  punish  for  every  infraction  ?" 
"  Certainly.     But,  I  am  always  sure  that  the'child 
is  fully  aware  of  his  fault,  and  let  my  punishment  be 
graduated  according  to  the  wilfulness  of  the  act." 

"  And  you  do  this  coolly  ?" 

j        "  Oh,  yes.     I  never  punish  a  child  while  I  am  ex- 
£    cited  with  a  feeling  of  indignation  for  the  offence." 
"If  I  waited  for  that  to  pass  off,  I  could  never 
j    punish  one  of  my  children." 

<  "  Do  you  find,  under  this  system,  that  your  child- 
l   ren  are  growing  up  orderly  and  obedient  ?" 

"  No,  indeed !     Of  course  I  do  not.     Who  ever 

>  heard  of  orderly  and  obedient  children  ?     In  fact, 

^    who  would  wish  their  children  to  be  mere  automatons  ?    ^ 

>  I  am  sure  I  would  not.     They  are,  by  nature,  rest-    ; 
;j    less,   and  impatient  of  control.     It  will  not  do  to    5 
I;    break  down  their  young  spirits.  As  for  punishments, 

!I  don't  believe  much  in  them,  any  how.  I  have  an  ^ 
idea  that  the  less  they  are  brought  into  requisition  ? 
the  better.  They  harden  children.  Kindness,  long  j 
jj  Buffering,  and  forbearance  will  accomplish  a  great  ! 
deal  more,  and  in  the  end  be  better  for  the  child." 

At  this  moment  a  little  fellow  came  sliding  into 
the  parlour,  with  a  look  that  said  plainly  enough,  "  I 
know  you  don't  want  me  here." 

"  Run  out,  Charley,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley,  in  ft 
mild  voice. 


130  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


But  Charley  did  not  seem  to  notice  his  motlur'a 
words,  for  he  continued  advancing  toward  her,  until 
he  was  by  her  side,  when  he  paused  and  looked  the 
visitor  steadily  in  the  face. 

"  Charley,  you  must  run  out,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs. 
Stanley,  in  a  firmer  and  more  decided  voice. 

But  Charley  only  leaned  heavily  against  his  mo- 
ther, not  heeding  in  the  smallest  degree  her  words. 
Knowing  how  impossible  it  would  be  to  get  the  child 
out  of  the  room,  without  a  resort  to  violence,  Mrs. 
Stanley  said  no  more  to  him,  but  continued  the  con- 
versation with  her  friend.  She  had  only  spoken  a 
few  words,  however,  before  Charley  interrupted  her 
by  saying — 

"  Mother  ! — Mother  ! — Give  me  a  piece  of  cake/' 

"  No,  my  son.  You  have  had  cake  enough  this 
afternoon,"  replied  Mrs.  Stanley. 

"  Oh  yes,  do,  mother,  give  me  a  piece  of  cake." 

"It  will  make  you  sick,  Charley." 

"No,  it  won't.     Please  give  me  some." 

"I  had  rather  not." 

"  Yes,  mother.     Oh  do  !     I  want  a  piece  of  cake.' 

"  Go  'way,  Charles,  and  don't  tease  me." 

There  was  a  slight  expression  of  impatience  in  the 
mother's  voice.  The  child  ceased  his  importunities 
for  a  few  moments,  but  just  as  Mrs.  Stanley  had  < 
commenced  a  sentence,  intended  to  embody  some  ! 
wise  saying  in  regard  to  the  management  of  child-  j 
ren,  the  little  boy  broke  in  upon  her  with — 

"  I  say,  mother,  give  me  a  piece  of  cake,  won't    < 
you?"  in  quite  a  loud  voice. 

Mrs.  Stanley  felt  irritated  by  this  importunity,    \ 
but  she  governed  herself.  Satisfied  that  there  would 


THE   TWO   SYSTEMS.  131 


be  no  peace  unless  the  cake  were  forthcoming,  she 
said,  looking  affectionately  at  the  child : 

"  Poor  little  fellow  !  I  suppose  he  does  feel  hun- 
gry. I  don't  think  another  piece  of  cake  will  hurt 
him  Excuse  me  a  moment,  Mrs.  Noland." 

The  cake  was  obtained  by  Charley  in  the  very  way 
he  had,  hundreds  of  times  before,  accomplished  his 
purpose,  that  is,  by  teasing  it  out  of  his  mother.  For 
the  next  ten  minutes  the  friends  conversed,  unmo- 
lested. At  the  end  of  that  time  Charley  again  made 
his  appearance. 

"Go  up  into  the  nursery,  and  stay  with  Ellen," 
said  Mrs.  Stanley. 

The  child  took  no  notice,  whatever,  of  this  direc- 
tion, but  walked  steadily  up  to  where  his  mother 
w»ts  sitting,  saying,  as  he  paused  by  her  side— 

"I  want  another  piece  of  cake." 

"Not  any  more,  my  son." 

"Yes,  mother.     Give  me  some  more." 

"No."     This  was  spoken  in  a  very  positive  way. 

Charley  began  to  beg  in  a  whining  tone,  which, 
not  producing  the  desired  effect,  soon  rose  into  a  well- 
defined  cry. 

"  I  declare  !  I  never  saw  such  a  hungry  set  as 
my  children  are.  They  will  eat  constantly  from 
morning  until  night."  Mrs.  Stanley  did  not  say  this 
in  the  most  amiable  tone  of  voice. 

"  Mother  !  I  want  a  piece  of  cake,"  cried  Charley. 

"  I'll  give  you  one  little  piece  more ;  but,  remem- 
ber, that  it  will  be  the  last ;  so  don't  ask  me  again." 

Charley  stopped  crying  at  once.  Mrs.  Stanley 
went  out  with  him.  As  soon  as  she  was  far  enough 
from  the  parlour  not  to  be  heard,  she  took  Charley 


THE   HOME   MISSION. 


by  the  shoulders,  and  giving  him  a  violent  shake, 
said — 

"  You  little  rebel,  you !  If  you  come  into  the  par- 
lour again,  I'll  skin  you !" 

The  cake  was  given.  Charley  cared  about  as  much 
for  the  threat  as  he  did  for  the  shaking.  He  had 
gained  his  end. 

"  I  pray  daily  for  patience  to  bear  with  my  child- 
ren," said  Mrs.  Stanley,  on  returning  to  the  parlour. 
"They  try  us  severely." 

"  That  they  do,"  replied  Mrs.  Noland.  "  But  it 
is  in  our  power,  by  firmness,  consistency,  and  kind- 
ness, to  render  our  tasks  comparatively  light." 

"  Perhaps  so.  I  try  to  be  firm,  and  consistent, 
and  kind  with  my  children ;  to  exercise  toward  them 
constant  forbearance ;  but,  after  all,  it  is  very  hard 
to  know  exactly  how  to  govern  them." 

"  Mother,  can't  I  go  over  into  the  square  ?"  asked 
Emma,  looking  into  the  parlour  just  at  this  time.  She 
was  a  little  girl  about  eight  years  old. 

"I  would  rather  not  have  you  go,  my  dear,"  re- 
turned Mrs.  Stanley. 

"  Oh  yes,  mother,  do  let  me  go,"  urged  Emma. 

"  Ellen  can't  go  with  you  now ;  and  I  do  not  wish 
you  to  go  alone." 

"I  can  go  well  enough,  mother." 

"  Well,  run  along  then,  you  intolerable  little  tease, 
you !" 

Emma  scampered  away,  and  Mrs.  Stanley  re- 
marked— 

"  That  is  the  way.  They  gain  their  ends  by  im- 
portunity." 

"  But  should  you  allow  that,  my  friend  ?" 


THE  TWO   SYSTEMS  133 


"  There  was  no  particular  reason  why  Emma 
^  flhould  not  go  to  the  square.  I  didn't  think,  at  first, 
j;  when  I  said  I  would  rather  not  have  her  go,  or  I 
ji  would  have  said  'yes'  at  once.  It  is  so  difficult  to 
s1  decide  upon  children's  requests  on  the  spur  of  the 
moment." 

"  But  after  you  had  said  that  you  did  not  want 
her  to  go  to  the  square,  would  it  not  have  been  bet- 
ter to  have  made  her  abide  by  your  wishes?" 

"  I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  right  for  me  to 
have  deprived  the  child  of  the  pleasure  of  playing  in 
the  square,  from  the  mere  pride  of  consistency.  I 
was  wrong  in  objecting  at  first — to  have  adhered  to  J 
my  objection  would  have  been  still  a  greater  wrong ; 
• — don't  you  think  so?" 

"  I  do  not,"  returned  Mrs.  Noland.    "  I  know  of 
no  greater  evil  in  a  family,  than  for  the  children  to 
discover  that  their  parents  vacillate  in  any  matter    j 
regarding  them.     A  denial  once  made  to  any  request 
should  be  positive,  even  if,  in  a  moment  after,  it  be    \ 
seen  to  have  been  made  without  sufficient  reason." 

"  I  cannot  agree  with  you.     Justice,  I  hold,  to  be 
paramount  in  all  things.     We  should  never  wrong  a    ;! 
child." 

The  third  appearance  of  Charley  again  broke  in 
upon  the  conversation. 

"  Give  me  another  piece  of  cake,  mother." 

"  What !  Didn't  I  tell  you  that  there  was  no 
more  for  you  ?  No !  you  cannot  have  another  mor 
sel." 

"I  want  some  more  cake," whined  the  child. 

"Not  a  crumb  more,  sir." 

The  whine  rose  into  a  cry 


134  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

"  Go  up  stairs,  sir." 
Charley  did  not  move. 
"  Go  this  instant." 
"  Give  me  some  cake." 
"No." 

The  cry  swelled  into  a  loud  bawl. 
>,  Mrs.  Stanley  became  excessively  annoyed.  "I 
I  never  saw  such  persevering  children  in  my  life,"  said 
<  she,  impatiently.  "  They  don't  regard  what  I  say 
I;  any  more  than  if  I  had  not  spoken.  Charles !  Go 
\  out  of  the  parlour  this  moment !" 

The  tone  in  which  this  was  uttered  the  child  un- 
jl  derstood.  He  left  the  parlour  slowly,  but  continued 
!;'  to  cry  at  the  top  of  his  voice.  The  parlour  bell  was 
rung,  and  Ellen  the  nurse  appeared. 

"  Do,  Ellen,  give  that  boy  another  piece  of  cake ! 
There  is  no  other  way  to  keep  him  quiet." 

In  about  three  minutes  after  this  direction  had 
been  given,  all  was  still  again.  Mrs.  Stanley  now 
changed  the  topic  of  conversation.  Her  manner  was 
not  quite  so  cheerful  as  before.  The  conduct  of 
Charley  had  worried  and  mortified  her. 

The  last  piece  of  cake  had  not  been  really  wanted. 
Charley  asked  for  it  because  a  spirit  of  opposition 
had  been  aroused,  but  he  had  no  appetite  to  eat  it. 
It  was  crumbled  about  the  floor  and  wasted.  His 
mother  had  peace  for  the  next  hour.  After  that  she 
went  into  the  kitchen  to  give  directions,  and  make 
some  preparations  for  tea.  Charley  was  by  her 
side. 

"Ellen,  take  this  child  out,"  said  she. 

Ellen  took  hold  of  Charley's  arm. 

"No! — no !—  Go  'way,  Ellen!"  he  screamed. 


THE   TWO   SYSTEMS,  135 


"  There ! — there ! — never  mind:     Let  him  stay,' 
said  the  mother. 

A  jar  of  preserved  fruit  was  brought  forth. 
"  Give  me  some?"  asked  Charley. 
"  No,  not  now.     You  will  get  some  at  the  table." 
"I  want  some  now.     Give  me  some  now." 
A  spoonful  of  the  preserves  was  put  into  a  saucer, 
and  given  to  the  child. 

"  Give  me  some  more,"  said  he,  holding  up  his 
saucer  in  about  half  a  minute. 
"No.     Wait  until  tea  is  ready." 
"  Give  me  some  sweetmeats.     I  want  more,  mo- 
ther!" 

"  I  tell  you,  no." 
A  loud  bawl  followed. 

"  I  declare  this  child  will  worry  me  to  death !" 
exclaimed  the  mother,  her  mind  all  in  confusion, 
f  lading  out  a  large  spoonful  of  the  fruit,  and  putting 
>  it  into  his  saucer. 

When  this  was  eaten,  still  more  was  demanded, 
(  and  peremptorily  refused.  Crying  was  resorted  to, 
\  but  without  effect,  though  it  was  loud  and  deafening. 
;  Finding  this  unsuccessful,  the  spoiled  urchin  deter- 
\  mined  to  help  himself.  As  soon  as  his  mother's  back 
\  was  turned,  he  clambered  up  to  the  table  and  seized 
!  the  jar  containing  the  preserves.  In  pulling  it  over 
J  far  enough  to  get  his  spoon  into  It,  the  balance  of 
\  the  jar  was  destroyed,  and  over  it  went,  rolling  off 
\  upon  the  floor,  and  breaking  with  a  loud  crash.  At 
\  the  moment  this  occurred,  Mrs.  Stanley  entered  the 
\  room.  Her  patience,  that  had  been  severely  tried, 
was  now  completely  overthrown.  She  was  angry 
enough  to  punish  her  child,  and  feel  a  delight  in  do- 


136  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


ing  so.  Seizing  him  by  one  arm,  she  lifted  him  from 
the  floor,  as  if  he  had  been  but  a  feather,  and  hurried 
with  him  up  to  her  chamber.  There  she  whipped  him 
unmercifully,  and  then  put  him  to  bed.  He  conti 
nued  to  cry  after  she  had  done  so,  when  she  com- 
manded him  to  stop  in  a  voice  that  he  dared  not  dis- 
obey. An  hour  afterward,  when  much  cooled  down, 
she  passed  through  the  chamber.  She  looked  down  j> 
upon  her  little  boy  with  a  feeling  of  repentance  for  t 
her  anger  and  the  severity  of  her  punishment.  This  £ 
feeling  was  in  no  way  mitigated  on  hearing  the  child  < 
sob  in  his  sleep.  The  mother  felt  very  unhappy.  \ 

So  much  for  Mrs.  Stanley  —  so  much  for  her  ten-  \ 
derness  of  feeling  —  so  much  for  her  warm-blooded  j 
system.  Its  effects  need  not  be  exposed  further.  Its  ;j 
folly  need  not  be  set  in  any  plainer  light. 

Some  weeks  afterward  she  was  spending  an  after-  5 
noon  with  Mrs.  Noland.  Her  favourite  topic  was  i 
the  management  of  children,  and  she  introduced  it  j> 
as  usual,  inveighing  as  was  her  wont  against  the  cru-  \ 
elty  of  punishing  children  —  especially  in  cold  blood,  J 
as  she  called  it.  For  her  part,  she  never  punished 
except  in  extreme  cases,  and  not  then,  unless  pro- 
voked to  do  so.  Unless  she  felt  angry,  and  punished 
on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  she  could  not  do  it  at  all. 
During  the  conversation,  which  was  led  pretty  much 
by  Mrs.  Stanley,  a  child,  about  the  age  of  Charley, 
came  into  the  parlour.  He  walked  up  to  his  mother 
and  whispered  some  request  in  her  ear. 

"  Oh  no,  Master  Harry  !"  was  the  smiling,  but  de«  ] 
cided  reply. 

The  child  lingered  with  a  look  of  disappointment,  f 
At  length  he  came  up,  and  kissing  his  mother,  asked  » 

J 


THE   TWO   SYSTEMS.  137      'f 


again,  in  a  sweet,  earnest  way,  for  what  he  had  been 
at  first  denied. 

"  After  I  said  no !"  And  Mrs.  Noland  looked 
gravely  into  his  face. 

Tears  came  into  Henry's  eyes.  But  he  said  no 
more.  In  a  moment  or  two  he  silently  left  the 
room. 

"  Mrs.  Noland  !  How  could  you  resist  that  deal 
little  fellow  ?  I  declare  it  was  right  down  cruel  in 

you." 

The  eyes  of  Mrs.  Stanley  glistened  as  she  spoke. 

"It  would  have  been  far  more  cruel  to  him  if  I 
had  yielded,  after  once  having  said  'no' — far  more 
cruel  had  I  given  him  what  I  knew  would  have  in- 
jured him." 

"  But,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  refuse  so  dear  a 
child,  when  he  asked  you  in  such  a  sweet,  affectionate 
manner.  I  should  have  given  him  any  thing  in  the 
world  he  had  asked  for." 

"  That's  not  my  way.  I  say  '  no'  only  when  I  have 
good  reason,  and  then  I  never  change." 

"  Never  ?" 

"Never." 

Henry  appeared  at  the  parlour  door  again. 

"  Come  in,  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Noland. 

The  child  came  quickly  forward,  put  up  his  mouth 
to  kiss  her,  and  then  nestled  closely  by  his  mother's 
side.  The  conversation  continued,  without  the  slightest 
interruption  from  him. 

"Dear  little  fellow,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley,  once  or    '/ 
twice,  looking  into  the  child's  face,  and  smoothing 
his  hair  with  her  hand. 

When  the  tea  bell  rung,  the  family  assembled  in     \ 
12* 


138  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


the  dining-room.  A  visiter  made  it  necessary  that 
one  of  the  children  should  wait.  Henry  was  by  the 
table  as  usual. 

"  Harry,  dear,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  will  have  to 
wait  and  come  with  Ellen." 

The  child  felt  very  much  disappointed.  He  looked 
up  into  his  mother's  face  for  a  moment,  and  then, 
without  a  word,  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  Poor  little  fellow  !  It  is  really  a  pity  to  make 
him  wait;  and  he  is  so  good,"  said  Mrs.  Stanley. 
"  I  am  sure  we  can  make  room  for  him.  Do  call  him 
back,  and  let  him  sit  by  me." 

And  she  moved  close  to  one  of  the  older  children 
as  she  spoke.  "  Here  is  plenty  of  room." 

Mrs.  Noland  thought  for  a  moment,  and  then 
told  the  waiter  to  call  Henry  back.  The  child  came 
I  in  as  quietly  as  he  had  gone  out,  and  came  up  to  his 
/  mother's  side. 

"My  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Noland,  "this  good  lady 
here  has  made  room  for  you  by  her  side.     You  can 
s    go  and  sit  by  her." 

The  child's  face  brightened.     He  went  quickly  and 

'     took  the  offered  seat.     By  the  time  tea  was  over, 

Henry  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  chair.     Mrs.  Noland, 

when  all  arose  from  the  table,  took  Henry  in  her 

arms,  and  went  with  him,  accompanied  by  Mrs.  Stan- 

;!     ley,  to  her  chamber,  where  she  undressed  him,  and 

s    kissing  fondly  his  bright  young  cheek,  laid  him  in 

5    his  littl  3  bed. 

Mrs.  Stanley  stood  for  some  moments  over  the 

Bleeping  child,  and  looked  down  upon  his  calm  face. 

<    As  she  did  so,  she  remembered  her  own  little  Charley, 

and  under  what  different  circ  urn  stances  and  feelings 


THE  EVENING  PRAYER.          139  j 

,  ne  had  been  put  to  bed  on  the  evening  of  Mrs.  No-  ; 


land's  visit  to  her. 

Whether  the  contrast  did  her  any  good,  we  have 
no  means  of  knowing.     We  trust  the  lesson  was  not    s 
without  its  good  effect  upon  her. 


THE  EVENING  PRAYER. 

"(Bra    atr." 


!;       "  OUR  Father."      The  mother's  voice  was  low, 
'    and  tender,  and  solemn. 

<  "  Our  Father."     On  two  sweet  voices  the  words 
't   were   borne   upward.       It  was   the    innocence   of 
\    reverent  childhood  that  gave  them  utterance. 

"  Who  art  in  the  heavens." 

"  Who  art  in  the  heavens,"  repeated  the  children, 
;    one  with  her  eyes  bent  meekly  down,  and  the  other 

<  looking   upward,   as   if    she    would    penetrate    the 
heavens  into  which  her  heart  aspired. 

"  Hallowed  be  Thy  name." 

Lower  fell  the  voices  of  the  little  ones.  In  a 
gentle  murmur  they  said:  "Hallowed  be  Thy 
name." 

"  Thy  kingdom  come." 

And  the  burden  of  the  prayer  was  still  taken  up 
by  the  children  —  "  Thy  kingdom  come  " 


140  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


"  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  done  in 
heaven." 

Like  a  low,  sweet  echo  from  the  land  of  angels— 
"  Thy  will  be  done  on  earth,  as  it  is  done  in  heaven," 
filled  the  chamber. 

And  the  mother  continued — "  Give  us  this  day 
our  daily  bread." 

"  Our  daily  bread"  lingered  a  moment  on  the  air, 
as  the  mother's  voice  was  hushed  into  silence. 

"  And  forgive  us  our  debts,  as  we  also  forgive  our 
debtors." 

The  eyes  of  the  children  had  drooped  for  a  mo- 
ment. But  they  were  uplifted  again  as  they  prayed  ^ 
— "  And  forgive  us  our  debts,  as  we  also  forgive  our  ] 
debtors." 

"And  Jead  us  not  into  temptation;  but  deliver  > 
us  from  evil.  For  Thine  is  the  kingdom,  and  the  \ 
power,  and  the  glory,  for  ever.  Amen." 

All  these  holy  words  were  said,  piously  and  fer-  £ 
vently,  by  the  little  ones,  as  they  knelt  with  clasped  \ 
hands  beside  their  mother.  Then,  as  their  thoughts,  <; 
uplifted  on  the  wings  of  prayer  to  their  heavenly  ; 
Father,  came  back  again  and  rested  on  their  earthly  < 
parents,  a  warmer  love  came  gushing  from  their  t 
hearts. 

Pure  kisses — tender  embraces — the  fond  "good  ,; 
night."  What  a  sweet  agitation  pervaded  all  their  ] 
feelings !  Then  two  dear  heads  were  placed  side  \ 
by  side  on  the  snowy  pilloAv,  the  mother's  last  kiss  ] 
given,  and  the  shadowy  curtains  drawn. 

What  a  pulseless  stillness  reigns  throughout  the 
chamber !  Inwardly  the  parents'  listening  ears  are 
bent.  They  have  given  these  innocent  ones  intc  ; 


THE  EVENING  PRAYER.          141 


the  keeping  of  God's  angels,  and  they  can  almost 
hear  the  rustle  of  their  garments  as  they  gather 
around  their  sleeping  babes.  A  sigh,  deep  and 
tremulous,  breaks  on  the  air.  Quickly  the  mother 
turns  to  the  father  of  her  children,  with  a  look  of 
earnest  inquiry  on  her  countenance.  And  he 
answers  thus  her  silent  question. 

"  Far  back,  through  many  years,  have  my 
thoughts  been  wandering.  At  my  mother's  knee 
thus  said  I  nightly,  in  childhood,  my  evening 
prayer.  It  was  that  best  and  holiest  of  all  prayers, 
"  Our  Father,"  that  she  taught  me.  Childhood  and 
my  mother  passed  away.  I  went  forth  as  a  man 
into  the  world,  strong,  confident,  and  self-seeking. 
Once  I  came  into  great  temptation.  Had  I  fallen 
in  that  temptation,  I  would  have  fallen,  I  sadly  fear, 
never  to  have  risen  again.  The  struggle  in  my 
mind  went  on  for  hours.  I  was  about  yielding.  All 
the  barriers  I  could  oppose  to  the  in-rushing  flood 
seemed  just  ready  to  give  way,  when,  as  I  sat  in  my 
room  one  evening,  there  came  from  an  adjoining  ;! 
chamber,  now  first  occupied  for  many  weeks,  the  <; 
murmur  of  low  voices.  I  listened.  At  first,  no  ff 
articulate  sound  was  heard,  and  yet  something  in  the  < 
tones  stirred  my  heart  with  new  and  strange  emotions.  \ 

*/  o  i 

At  length,  there  came  to  my  ears,  in  the  earnest,  e 
loving  voice  of  a  woman,  the  words — '  Deliver  ua  ? 
from  evil.'  For  an  instant,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  \ 
the  voice  were  that  of  my  mother.  Back,  with  a 
sudden  bound  through  all  the  intervening  years,  went 
my  thoughts;  and,  a  child  in  heart  again,  I  was 
\  kneeling  at  my  mother's  knee.  Humbly  and  reve- 
|  rently  I  said  over  the  words  of  the  holy  prayer  she 


142  THE    HOME   MISSION. 


had  taught  me,  heart  and  eyes  uplifted  to  heaven. 
The  hour  and  the  power  of  darkness  had  passed.  I 
was  no  longer  standing  in  slippery  places,  with  a 
flood  of  waters  ready  to  sweep  me  to  destruction ; 
but  my  feet  were  on  a  rock.  My  mother's  pious 
care  had  saved  her  son.  In  the  holy  words  she 
taught  me  in  childhood,  was  a  living  power  to  resist 
evil  through  all  my  after  life.  Ah !  that  unknown 
mother,  as  she  taught  her  child  to  repeat  his  even- 
ing prayer,  how  little  dreamed  she  that  the  holy 
words  were  to  reach  a  stranger's  ears,  and  save  him 
through  memories  of  his  own  childhood  and  his  own 
mother  !  And  yet  it  was  so.  What  a  power  there 
is  in  God's  Word,  as  it  flows  into  and  rests  in  the 
minds  of  innocent  children !" 

Tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  the  wife  and  mother  as 
she  lifted  her  face,  and  gazed  with  a  subdued  tender- 
ness upon  the  countenance  of  her  husband.  Her 
heart  was  too  full  for  utterance.  A  little  while  she 
thus  gazed,  and  then,  with  a  trembling  joy,  laid  her 
head  upon  his  bosom.  Angels  were  in  the  chamber 
where  their  dear  ones  slept,  and  they  felt  their  holy 
presence. 


L 


I 

"A  PEEVISH  DAY,  AND  ITS  CONSE- 
QUENCES. 


"!T  is  too  bad,  Rachael,  to  put  me  to  all  this 


i    trouble ;  and  you  know  I  can  hardly  hold  up  my 
#   head!" 

Thus  spoke  Mrs.  Smith,  in  a  peevish  voice,  to  a 
\   quiet-looking  domestic,  who  had  been  called  up  from 
I   the  kitchen  to  supply  some  unimportant  omission  in     j 
\    the  breakfast-table  arrangement. 

Rachael  looked  hurt  and  rebuked,  but  made  no 
|  reply. 

"  How  could  you  speak  in  that  way  to  Rachael  ?" 
\  said  Mr.  Smith,  as  soon  as  the  domestic  had  with- 
jj  drawn. 

"  If  you  felt  just  as  I  do,  Mr.  Smith,  you  would 
^    speak  cross  too  S"  Mrs.  Smith  replied  a  little  warmly. 
|    "  I  feel  just  like  a  rag ;  and  my  head  aches  as  if  it 
would  burst." 

"  I  know  you  feel  badly,  and  I  am  very  sorry  for 
you.     But  still,  I  suppose  it  is  as  easy  to  speak 
kindly  as  harshly.     Rachael  is  very  obliging  and  at- 
tentive,  and   should  be    borne  with   in  occasional 
omissions,  which  you  of  course  know  are  not  wilful." 
"It  is  easy  enough  to  preach,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Smith,  whose  temper,  from  bodily  lassitude  and  pain, 
was  in  quite   an  irritable  state.     The  reader  will 
>    understand  at  least  one  of  the  reasons  of  this,  when 

143 


144  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


he  is  told  that  the  scene  here  presented  occurred    < 
during  the  last  oppressive  week  in  August. 

Mr.  Smith  said  no  more.  He  saw  that  to  do  s<r  \ 
would  only  be  to  provoke  instead  of  quieting  his  \ 
wife's  ill-humour.  The  morning  meal  went  by  in  ; 
silence,  but  little  food  passing  the  lips  of  either. 
How  could  it,  when  the  thermometer  was  ninety-four  •! 
at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  the  leaves  upon 
the  trees  were  as  motionless  as  if  suspended  in  a 
vacuum?  Bodies  and  minds  were  relaxed — and  the 
one  turned  from  food,  as  the  other  did  from  thought, 
with  an  instinctive  aversion. 

After  Mr.  Smith  had  left  his  home  for  his  place 
of  business,  Mrs.  Smith  went  up  into  her  chamber,    5 
and  threw  herself  upon  the  bed,  her  head  still  con- 
tinuing to  ache  with  great  violence.    It  so  happened    < 
that  a  week  before,  the  chambermaid  had  gone  away .    ^ 
sick,  and  all  the  duties  of  the  household  had  in  con-    < 
sequence  devolved  upon  Rachael,  herself  not  very 
well.     Cheerfully,  however,  had  she  endeavoured  to 
discharge  these  accumulated  duties,  and  but  for  the 
unhappy,  peevish  state  of  mind  in  which  Mrs.  Smith    $ 
indulged,  would    have  discharged  them  without  a 
murmuring  thought.     But,   as  she  was  a  faithful, 
conscientious  woman,  and,  withal,  sensitive  in  her 
feelings,  to  be  found  fault  with  worried  her  exceed- 
ingly.    Of  this  Mrs.  Smith  was  well  aware,  and  had, 
until  the  latter  part  of  the  trying  month  of  August. 
acted  toward  Rachael  with  consideration  and  for- 
bearance.    But  the  last  week  of  August  was  too 
much  for  her.     The  sickness  of  the  chambermaid 
threw  such  heavy  duties  upon  Rachael,  whose  daily 
headaches  and  nervous  relaxation  of  body  were  borne 


A  PEEVISH  DAY,  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES.      145 


without  a  complaint,  that  their  perfect  performance 
was  almost  impossible.  Slight  omissions,  which  were 
next  to  unavoidable  under  the  circumstances,  became 
so  annoying  to  Mrs.  Smith,  herself,  as  it  has  been 
seen,  labouring  under  great  bodily  and  mental  pros- 
tration, that  she  could  not  bear  them. 

"  She  knows  better,  and  she  could  do  better,  if  she 
chose,"  was  her  rather  uncharitable  comment  often 
inwardly  made  on  the  occurrence  of  some  new  trouble. 
After  Mr.  Smith  had  taken  his  departure  on  the 
morning  just  referred  to,  Mrs.  Smith  went  up  into 

)    her  chamber,  as  has  been  seen,  and  threw  herself 

J   languidly  upon  a  bed,  pressing  her  hands  to  her 

j>   throbbing  temples,  as  she  did  so,  and  murmuring, 

i,        "I  can't  live  at  this  rate !" 

\  At  the  same  time,  Rachael  set  down  in  the  kitchen 
the  large  waiter  upon  which  she  had  arranged  the 
dishes  from  the  breakfast-table,  and  then  sinking 
into  a  chair,  pressed  one  hand  upon  her  forehead, 
and  sat  for  more  than  a  minute  in  troubled  silence. 

|  It  had  been  three  days  since  she  had  received  from 
Mrs.  Smith  a  pleasant  word ;  and  the  last  remark, 

*  made  to  her  a  short  time  before,  had  been  the  un- 
kindest  of  all.  At  another  time,  even  all  this  would 
not  have  moved  her — she  could  have  perceived  that 
Mrs.  S.  was  not  in  a  right  state — that  lassitude  of 
body  had  produced  a  temporary  infirmity  of  mind. 
But,  being~herself  affected  by  the  oppressive  season 
almost  as  much  as  her  mistress,  she  could  not  make 
these  allowances.  While  still  seated,  the  chamber- 
bell  was  rung  with  a  quick,  startling  jerk. 

"  What  next  ?"  peevishly  ejaculated  Rachael,  and 
then  slowly  proceedei  to  obey  the  summons. 

13     ' 


146  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"  How  could  you  leave  my  chamber  in  such  a  coo- 
'<    dition  as  this  ?"  was  the  salutation  that  met  her  ear, 
'    as  she  entered  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Smith,  who,  half 
raised  upon  the  bed,  and  leaning  upon  her  hand, 
looked  the  very  personification  of  languor,  peevish- 
ness, and  ill-humour.      "You  had  plenty  of  time 
while  we  were  eating  breakfast  to  have  put  things  a 
little  to  rights !" 

To  this  Rachael  made  no  reply,  but  turned  away 
^  and  went  back  into  the  kitchen.  She  had  scarcely 
s  reached  that  spot,  before  the  bell  rang  again,  louder 
;  and  quicker  than  before ;  but  she  did  not  answer  it. 
;!  In  about  three  minutes  it  was  jerked  with  an  energy 
\  that  snapped  the  wire,  but  Rachael  was  immovable. 
/  Five  minutes  elapsed,  and  then  Mrs.  Smith,  fully 
f.  aroused  from  the  lethargy  that  had  stolen  over  her, 
\  came  down  with  a  quick,  firm  step. 

"  What's  the  reason  you  didn't  answer  my  bell  ? 
\    say !"  she  asked,  in  an  excited  voice. 
Rachael  did  not  reply. 
"  Do  you  hear  me  ?" 

Rachael  had  never  been  so  treated  before ;  she 
\    had  lived  with  Mrs.  Smith  for  three  years,  and  had 
;!    rarely  been  found  fault  with.     She  had  been  too 
strict  in  regard  to  the  performance  of  her  duty  to 
leave  much  room  for  even  a  more,  exacting  mistress 
s    to  find  fault ;  but  now,  to  be  overtasked  and  sick, 
\    and  to  be  chidden,  rebuked,  and  even  angrily  assail- 
ed, was  more  than  she  could  well  bear.     She  did  not 
\    Buffer  herself  to  speak  for  some  moments,  and  then 
\    her  voice  trembled,  and  the  tears  came  out  upon  her 
\    cheeks. 

"  I  wish  you  to  get  another  in  my  place.     I  find 


A  PEEVI3II  DAY,  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES.     147 


I  don't  suit  you.  My  time  will  be  up  day  after  to- 
morrow." 

'"  Very  well,"  was  Mrs.  Smith's  firm  reply,  as  she 
turned  away,  and  left  the  kitchen. 

Here  was  trouble  in  good  earnest.  Often  and 
often  had  Mrs.  Smith  said,  during  the  past  two  or 
three  years — "What  should  I  do  without  Rachael?" 
And  now  she  had  given  notice  that  she  was  going  to 
leave  her,  and  under  circumstances  which  made  pride 
;  forbid  a  request  to  stay.  Determined  to  act  out 
•1  her  part  of  the  business  with  firmness  and  decision, 
?  she  dressed  herself  and  went  out,  hot  and  oppressive 
I  as  it  was,  and  took  her  way  to  an  intelligence  office, 
where  she  paid  the  required  fee  and  directed  a  cook 
\  and  chambermaid  to  be  sent  to  her.  On  the  next 
;  morning,  about  ten  o'clock,  an  Irish  girl  came  and 
}  offered  herself  as  a  cook,  and  was,  after  sundry 
\  questions  and  answers,  engaged.  So  soon  as  this 

f  negotiation  was  settled,  Rachael  retired  from  the 
kitchen,  leaving  the  new-comer  in  full  possession. 

j;  In  half  an  hour  after  she  received  her  wages,  and 
left,  in  no  very  happy  frame  of  mind,  a  home  that 
had  been  for  three  years,  until  within  a  few  days,  a 

|  pleasant  one.  As  for  Mrs.  Smith,  she  was  ready  to 
go  to  bed  sick ;  but  this  was  impracticable.  Nancy, 
the  new  cook,  had  expressly  stipulated  that  she  was 
to  have  no  duties  unconnected  with  the  kitchen. 
The  consequence  was,  that  notwithstanding  the  ther- 
mometer ranged  above  ninety,  and  the  atmosphero 
remained  as  sultry  as  air  from  a  heated  oven,  Mrs. 
Smith  was  compelled  to  arrange  her  chamber  and 
parlours.  By  the  time  this  was  done,  she  was  in  a 
condition  to  go  to  hed,  and  He  until  dinner-time. 


148  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


!;    The  arrival  of  this  important  period  brought  neir 
]    troubles  and  vexations.     Dinner  was  late  by  forty 
;    minutes,  and  then  came  on  the  table  in  a  most 
abominable  condition.     A  fine  sirloin  was  burnt  to  a 
crisp.     The  tomatoes  were  smoked,  and  the  potatoes 
watery.    As  if  this  was  not  enough  to  mar  the  plea- 
s    sure  of  the  dinner  hour  for  a  hungry  huoband,  Mrs. 
Smith  added  thereto  a  distressed  countenance  and 
!    discouraging  complaints.     Nancy  was  grumbled  at 
\    and  scolded  every  time  she  had  occasion  to  appear  in 
\    the  room,  and  her  single  attempt  to  excuse  herself  on 
\    account  of  not  understanding  the  cook-stove,  was  met 
5    by,  "  Do  hush,  will  you !  I'm  out  of  all  patience  !"     $ 
As  to  the  latter  part  of  the  sentence,  that  was  a   \ 
needless  waste  of  words.      The  condition  of  mind   ;> 
j    she  described  was  fully  apparent. 

About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  just  as  Mrs.    > 

Smith  had  found  a  temporary  relief  from  a  troubled    \ 

\    mind,  and  a  most  intolerable  headache,  in  sleep,  a   £ 

tap  on  the  chamber-door  awoke  her,  and  there  stood   •! 

'ff    Nancy,  all  equipped  for  going  out. 

"I  find  I  won't  suit  you,  ma'am,"  said  Nancy,    > 
\]    "  and  so  you  must  look  out  for  another  girl." 

Having  said  this,  she  turned  away  and  took  her  s 
departure,  leaving  Mrs.  Smith  in  a  state  of  mind,  as  J 
it  is  said,  "  more  easily  imagined  than  described." 

"Oh  dear!  what  shall  I  do?"  at  length  broke  \ 
from  her  lips,  as  she  burst  into  tears,  and  burying  ', 
her  face  in  the  pillow,  sobbed  aloud.  Already  she  f 
had  repented  of  her  fretfulness  and  fault-finding 
temper,  as  displayed  toward  Rachael,  and  could  she 
have  made  a  truce  with  pride,  or  silenced  its  whis- 
pers, wo  ild  have  sent  for  her  well-tried  domestic, 


A  PEEVISH  DAY,  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES. 


and  endeavoured  to  make  all  fair  with  her  again. 
But,  under  the  circumstances,  this  was  now  impos- 
sible. While  yet  undetermined  how  to  act,  the  street- 
bell  rung,  and  she  was  compelled  to  attend  the  door, 
as  she  was  now  alone  in  the  house.  She  found,  on 
opening  it,  a  rough-looking  country  girl,  who  asked 
if  she  were  the  lady  who  wanted  a  chambermaid. 
Any  kind  of  help  was  better  than  none  at  all,  and 
so  Mrs.  Smith  asked  the  young  woman  to  walk  in. 
In  treating  with  her  in  regard  to  her  qualifications 
for  the  situation  she  applied  for,  she  discovered  that 
she  knew  "  almost  nothing  at  all  about  any  thing." 
The  stipulation  that  she  was  to  be  a  doer-of-all-work- 
in-general,  until  a  cook  could  be  obtained,  was 
readily  agreed  to,  and  then  she  was  shown  to  her 
room  in  the  attic,  where  she  prepared  herself  for 
enter.ing  upon  her  duties. 

"  Will  you  please,  ma'am,  show  me  what  you  want 
me  to  do?"  asked  the  new  help,  presenting  herself 
before  Mrs.  Smith. 

"  Go  into  the  kitchen,  Ellen,  and  see  that  the  fire   ;> 

>  is  made.     I'll  be  down  there  presently." 

To  be  compelled  to  see  after  a  new  and  ignorant  / 
j  servant,  and  direct  her  in  every  thing,  just  at  so  \ 
j  trying  a  season  of  the  year,  and  while  her  mind  was  ^ 
;  "  all  out  of  sorts,"  was  a  severe  task  for  poor  Mrs.  ' 

>  Smith.     She  found  that  Ellen,  as  she  had  too  good    ? 
;    reason  for  believing,  was  totally  unacquainted  with    ] 

>  kitchen-work.     She  did  not  even  know  how  to  kindle 
1    a  coal  fire ;  nor  could  she  manage  the  stc  ve  after 

>  Mrs.  Smith  had  made  the  fire  for  her.     All  this  did 
\    not  in  any  way  tend  to  make  her  less  unhappy  or 
i    more  patient  than  before      On  retiring  for  the  night 

13* 


150  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


she  had  a  high  fever,  which  continued  unabated  until 
morning,  when  her  husband  found  her  really  ill ;  so 
much  so  as  to  make  the  attendance  of  a  doctor  ne- 
cessary. 

A  change  in  the  air  had  taken  place  during  the 
night,  and  the  temperature  had  fallen  many  degrees. 
This  aided  the  efforts  of  the  physician,  and  enabled 
him  so  to  adapt  his  remedies  as  to  speedily  break 
the  fever.  But  the  ignorance  and  awkwardness  of  jj 
Ellen,  apparent  in  her  attempts  to  arrange  her  bed  f 
and  chamber,  so  worried  her  mind,  that  she  was  near  ;. 
relapsing  into  her  former  feverish  and  excited  state. 
The  attendance  of  an  elder  maiden  sister  was  just  in 
time.  All  care  was  taken  from  her  thoughts,  and 
she  had  a  chance  of  recovering  a  more  healthy  tone 
of  mind  and  body.  During  the  next  week,  she  knew 
little  or  nothing  of  how  matters  were  progressing 
out  of  her  own  chamber.  A  new  cook  had  been 
hired,  of  whom  she  was  pleased  to  hear  good  accounts, 
although  she  had  not  seen  her ;  and  Ellen,  under  the 
mild  and  judicious  instruction  of  her  sister,  had 
learned  to  make  up  a  bed  neatly,  to  sweep,  and  dust 
in  true  style,  and  to  perform  all  the  little  etceteras 
of  chamber-work,  greatly  to  her  satisfaction.  She 
was,  likewise,  good-tempered,  willing,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance strictly  trustworthy. 

One  morning,  about  a  week  after  she  had  become 
too  ill  to  keep  up,  she  found  herself  so  far  recovered 
as  to  be  able  to  go  down  stairs  to  breakfast.  Every 
thing  upon  the  table  she  found  arranged  in  the 
s  neatest  style.  The  food  was  well  cooked,  especially 
some  tender  rice  cakes,  of  which  she  was  very  fond. 

"Really,  these  are  delicious!"  said  she,  as  tho 

ln_^_-N^_-> 


A  PEEVISH  DAY,  AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES.      151 


finely  flavoured  cakes  almost  melted  in  her  mouth. 
"  And  this  coffee  is  just  the  thing  !  How  fortunate 
we  have  been  to  obtain  so  good  a  cook !  I  was 
afraid  we  should  never  be  able  to  replace  Rachael. 
But  even  she  is  equalled,  if  not  surpassed." 

"Still  she  does  not  surpass  Rachael,"  said  Mr. 
Smith,  a  little  gravely.  "Rachael  was  a  treasure." 

"  Indeed  she  was.  And  I  have  been  sorry  enough 
I  ever  let  her  go,"  returned  Mrs.  Smith. 

At  that  moment  the  new  cook  entered  with  a 
plate  of  warm  cakes. 

"Rachael!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Smith,  letting  her 
knife  and  fork  fall.  "  How  do  you  do  ?  I  am  glad 
to  see  you  !  Welcome  home  again  !" 

As  she  spoke  quickly  and  earnestly,  she  held  out 
her  hand,  and  grasped  that  of  her  old  domestic 
warmly.  RacLacl  could  not  speak,  but  as  she  left 
the  room  she  put  her  apron  to  her  eyes.  Hers  were 
not  the  only  one's  dim  with  rising  moisture. 

For  at  least  a  year  to  come  both  Mrs.  Smith  and 
her  excellent  cook  will  have  no  cause  to  complain  of 
each  other.  How  they  will  get  along  during  the  last 
week  of  next  August  we  cannot  say,  but  hope  the 
lesson  they  have  both  received  will  teach  them  to 
bear  and  fo  -bear. 


i  ! 


SISTERS 


[We  make  the  Sallowing  extract  from  one  of  our  books— 
.,  "Advice  to  YDung  Men  on  their  Duties  and  Conduct  in 
\  Life."] 

IF  you  have  younger  sisters,  who  are  just  entering 
society,  all  your  interest  should  be  awakened  for 
them.  You  cannot  but  have  seen  some  little  below 
the  surface,  and  already  made  the  discovery  that  too 
few  of  the  young  men  who  move  about  in  the  vari- 
ous social  circles  to  which  you  have  admission,  are 
fit  associates  for  a  pure-minded  woman.  Their 
exterior,  it  is  true,  is  very  fair;  they  sing  well,  they 
dance  well,  their  persons  are  elegant,  and  their 
manners  attractive ;  but  you  have  met  them  when  ] 
they  felt  none  of  the  restraints  of  female  society, 
and  seen  them  unmask  their  real  characters.  You 
can  remember  the  ribald  jest,  the  obscene  allusion, 
the  sneer  at  virtue,  the  unblushing  acknowledgment 
of  licentiousness.  You  have  heard  them  speak  of 
this  sweet  girl,  and  that  puVe-minded  woman,  in  r 
terms  that  would  have  roused  your  deepest  indig-  } 
nation,  had  your  own  sister  been  the  subject  of 

,    allusion. 

You  may  know  all  these  things,  but  your  innocent 

/    sisters  at  home  cannot  know  them,  nor  see  reason 

152 


SISTERS.  153 

for  shunning  the  society  of  those  whose  real  cha- 
racters, if  revealed,  would  cause  them  to  turn  away 
in  disgust  and  horror.  From  the  dangers  of  an 
acquaintanceship  with  such  young  men  it  is  your 
duty  to  guard  your  sisters ;  and  you  must  do  this 
more  by  warding  off  the  evil  than  by  warnings 
against  it.  In  order  to  this,  you  should  make  it  a 
point  of  duty  always  to  go  with  your  sisters  into 
company,  and  to  be  their  companion,  if  possible,  on 
all  public  occasions.  By  so  doing,  you  can  prevent 
the  introduction  of  men  whose  principles  are  bad ; 
or,  if  such  introductions  are  forced  upon  them  in 
spite  of  you,  can  throw  in  a  timely  word  of  caution. 
This  latter  it  may  be  too  late  to  do  after  an  acquaint- 
anceship is  formed  with  a  man  whose  character  is 
detestable  in  your  eyes,  provided  he  have  a  fair 
exterior.  Your  sister  will  hardly  be  made  to  believe 
that  one  who  is  so  attractive  in  all  respects,  and  who 
can  converse  of  virtue  and  honour  so  eloquently, 
can  possibly  have  an  impure  or  vicious  mind.  She 
wall  think  you  prejudiced.  The  great  thing  is  to 
guard,  by  every  means  in  your  power,  these  inno- 
cent ones  from  the  polluting  presence  of  a  bad  man. 
You  cannot  tell  how  soon  he  may  win  the  affections 
of  the  most  innocent,  confiding,  and  loving  of  them 
all,  and  draw  her  off  from  virtue.  And  even  if  his 
designs  be  honourable — if  he  win  her  but  to  wed 
her — her  lot  will  be  by  no  means  an  enviable  one ; 
he  cannot  make  her  happy ;  for  happy  no  pure- 
minded  woman  ever  has  been,  or  ever  can  be  made, 
by  a  corrupt,  evil-minded,  and  selfish  man. 

You  are  a  brother ;  your  position  is  one  of  great 
responsibility;  let  this  be  ever  before  your  mind.    '< 

.'^-J 


154  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


On  your  faithfulness  to  your  duty,  may  depend  a 
lifetime  of  happiness  or  misery  for  those  who  are, 
or  ought  to  be,  very  dear  to  you.  But  m  t  only 
should  you  sjek  to  guard  them  from  the  danger  just 
alluded  to — your  affection  for  them  should  lead  you 
to  enter  into  their  pleasures  as  far  as  in  your  power 
to  do  so ;  to  give  interest  and  variety  to  the  home 
circle  ;  to  afford  them,  at  all  times,  the  assistance  of 
your  judgment  in  matters  of  trivial  as  well  as  grave 
importance.  By  this  you  will  gain  their  confidence 
and  acquire  an  influence  over  them  that  may,  at 
some  later  period,  enable  you  to  serve  them  in  a 
moment  of  impending  danger. 

We  very  often — indeed,  far  too  often — see  young 
men  with  sisters  who  appear  to  be  entirely  indifferent 
in  regard  to  them.  They  rarely  visit  together ; 
their  associates,  male  and  female,  are  strangers  to 
each  other;  they  appear  to  have  no  common  in-  \ 
terests.  This  state  of  things  is  the  fault,  nine  times  ( 
in  ten,  of  the  young  men.  It  is  the  result  of  their  > 
neglect  and  indifference.  There  are  very  few  sisters  < 
who  do  not  love  with  a  most  tender  and  unselfish  \ 
regard  their  brothers,  especially  their  elder  brothers, 
and  who  would  not  feel  happier  in  being  their  com- 
panions than  in  the  companionship  of  almost  any  s 
one.  Notwithstanding  all  this  neglect  and  indiffer-  5 
ence,  how  willingly  is  every  little  office  performed  \ 
that  adds  to  the  brother's  comfort !  How  much  care  '<, 
is  there  for  him  who  gives  back  so  little  in  return !  « 
The  sister's  love  is  as  unselfish  as  it  is  unostentatious. 
It  is  shown  in  acts,  not  in  professions.  How  can 
any  young  man  be  indifferent  to  such  love  ?  How 
can  he  fail  in  its  full  and  free  reciprocation  ? 


SISTERS.  155 

A  regard  for  himself,  as  well  as  for  his  sisters, 
should  lead  a  young  man  to  be  much  with  them. 
Their  influence  in  softening,  polishing,  and  refining 
his  character,  will  be  very  great.  They  have  per- 
ceptions of  the  propriety  and  fitness  of  things  far 
quicker  than  he  has  ;  and  this  he  will  soon  see  if  he 
observe  their  remarks  upon  the  persons  with  whom 
they  come  in  contact,  and  the  circumstances  that 
transpire  around  them.  While  he  is  reasoning  on 
the  subject,  and  balancing  many  things  in  his  mind 
before  coming  to  a  satisfactory  conclusion,  they,  by 
a  kind  of  intuition,  have  settled  the  whole  matter, 
and  settled  it,  he  will  find,  truly.  In  the  graver 
things  of  life,  a  man's  judgment  is  more  to  be  relied 
upon  than  a  woman's,  because  here  a  regular  course 
of  reasoning  from  premises  laid  down  is  required, 
and  this  a  man  is  much  more  able  to  do  than  a 
woman ;  but  in  matters  of  taste  and  propriety,  and 
in  the  quick  appreciation  of  character,  a  woman's 
perceptions  are  worth  far  more  than  a  man's  judg- 
ment. And  in  the  more  weighty  and  serious  matters 
of  life,  a  man  will  always  find  that  he  will  receive  ? 
aid,  in  coming  to  a  nice  decision,  from  a  wife  or  j; 
sister  who  loves  him,  if  he  will  only  carefully  lay  $ 
the  whole  subject  before  her,  with  the  reasons  that  J 
appeal  to  his  judgment,  and  be  guided  in  some  mea- 
sure by  her  perceptions  of  what  is  right.  This  is  'f 
because  man  is  in  the  province  of  the  understanding,  \ 
which  acts  by  thought,  and  woman  in  the  province  |> 
of  the  affections,  which  act  by  perceptions ;  not  that  ^ 
i  man  does  not  have  perceptions  and  a  woman  rea-  '/ 
son,  but  the  leading  characteristic  difference  between  \ 
tho  sexes  is  as  stated,  and  each  comes  to  conclusions 


156  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


mainly  by  either  the  one  or  the  other  of  these  two 
modes.  This  position,  which  we  believe  to  be  the 
true  one  in  regard  to  the  difference  between  the 
sexes,  demonstrates  the  great  use  of  female  society, 
especially  the  society  of  those  who  feel  some  interest 
in  and  affection  for  us.  In  such  society,  there  is  a 
reciprocation  of  benefits  that  is  nearly,  if  not  quite, 
equal.  And  nowhere  can  this  reciprocation  be  of 
greater  utility  than  among  brothers  and  sisters,  just 
entering  upon  life,  with  all  their  knowledge  of  hu- 
man character  and  human  life  to  gain. 


BROTHERS. 


[The  following  suggestions,  on  the  relation  and  duties  of  & 
sister  to  her  brother,  are  taken  from  a  volume  by  the  Author 
of  this  book,  entitled,  "  Advice  to  Young  Ladies  on  their 
Duties  and  Conduct  in  Life."] 

OLDER  brothers  are  not  usually  as  attentive  to 
their  younger  sisters  as  the  latter  would  feel  to  be 
agreeable.  The  little  girls  that  were  so  long  known 
as  children,  with  the  foibles,  faults,  and  caprices  of 
children,  although  now  grown  up  into  tall  young  ladies, 
who  have  left  or  are  about  leaving  school,  are  still  felt 
to  be  children,  or  but  a  little  advanced  beyond  child- 
hood,  by  the  young  men  who  have  had  some  three  or 
four  years  experience  in  the  world.  With  these  older 


BROTHERS.  157 


brothers,  there  will  not  usually  be,  arising  from  this 
cause,  much  confidential  and  unreserved  intercourse ; 
at  least,  not  until  the  sisters  have  added  two  or  three 
years  more  to  their  ages,  and  assumed  more  of  the 
quiet  dignity  of  womanhood. 

Upon  these  older  brothers,  therefore,  the  conduct 
of  sisters  cannot,  usually,  have  much  effect.  They 
are  removed  to  a  point  chiefly  beyond  the  circle  of 
their  influence.  But  upon  brothers  near  about  their 
own  age,  and  younger  than  themselves,  the  influence 
of  sisters  may  be  brought  to  bear  with  the  most  salu- 
tary results. 

The  temptations  to  which  young  men  are  exposed, 
when  first  they  come  in  contact  with  the  world,  are 
many,  and  full  of  the  strongest  allurements.  Their 
virtuous  principles  are  assailed  in  a  thousand  ways; 
sometimes  boldly,  and  sometimes  by  the  most  insi- 
dious arts  of  the  vicious  and  evil-minded.  All,  there- 
fore, that  can  make  virtue  lovely  in  their  eyes,  and 
vice  hideous,  they  need  to  strengthen  the  good  prin- 
ciples stored  up,  from  childhood,  in  their  minds. 
For  their  sakes,  home  should  be  made  as  attractive 
as  possible,  in  order  to  induce  them  frequently  to 
Bpend  their  evenings  in  the  place  where,  of  all  others, 
they  will  be  safest.  To  do  this,  a  young  lady  must 
consult  the  tastes  of  her  brothers,  and  endeavour  to 
take  sufficient  interest  in  the  pursuits  that  interest 
them,  as  to  make  herself  companionable.  If  they 
are  fond  of  music,  one  cf  the  strongest  incentives  she 
can  have  for  attaining  the  highest  possible  skill  in 
performing  upon  the  piano,  will  be  the  hope  of  mak- 
ing home,  thereby,  the  most  attractive  place  where 
they  can  spend  their  s  venings.  If  they  are  fond  of 

14 


158  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

;!    reading,  let  her  read,  as  far  as  she  can,  the  books 
/    that  interest  them,  in  order  that  she  may  take  part 
in  their  conversations ;  and  let  her,  in  every  other 
possible  way,  furnish  herself  with  the  means  of  mak- 
ing home  agreeable. 

There  is  no  surer  way  for  a  sister  to  gain  an  in- 
fluence with  her  brother,  than  to  cultivate  all  ex- 
terior graces  and  accomplishments,  and  improve  her 
mind  by  reading,  thinking,  and  observation.  By 
these  means  she  not  only  becomes  his  intelligent 
companion,  but  inspires  him  with  a  feeling  of  gene- 
rous pride  toward  her,  that,  more  than  any  thing  jj 
else,  impresses  her  image  upon  his  mind,  brings  her 
at  all  times  nearer  to  him,  and  gives  her  a  double 
power  over  him  for  good. 

The  indifference  felt  by  brothers  toward  their  sis-  j; 
'ers,  when  it  does  exist,  often  arises  from  the  fact  ;> 
that  their  sisters  are  inferior,  in  almost  every  tiling,  ^ 
to  the  women  they  are  in  the  habit  of  meeting  j 
abroad.  Where  this  is  the  case,  such  indifference  is  < 
not  so  much  to  be  wondered  at. 

Sisters  should  always  endeavour  to  gain,  as  much  } 
as  possible,  the  confidence  of  their  brothers,  and  to  \ 
give  them  their  confidence  in  return.  Mutual  good 
offices  will  result  from  this,  and  attachments  that 
could  only  produce  unhappiness  may  be  prevented. 
A  man  sees  more  of  men  than  woman  does,  and  the 
same  is  true  in  regard  to  the  other  sex.  This  being 
so,  a  brother  has  it  in  his  power  at  once  to  guard  hia 
sister  against  the  advances  of  an  unprincipled  man, 
or  a  man  whose  habits  he  knows  to  be  bad ;  and  a 
sister  has  it  in  her  power  to  reveal  to  her  brother 
traits  of  character  ^n  a  woman,  for  whom  he  is  about 


BROTHERS. 


forming  an  attachment,  that  would  repel  rather  than 
attract  him. 

Toward  her  younger  brother  a  sister  should  be 
particularly  considerate.  In  allusion  to  this  subject, 
Mrs.  Farrar  has  written  so  well  that  we  cannot  re- 
press our  wish  to  quote  her.  "  If  your  brothers  are 
younger  than  you,  encourage  them  to  be  perfectly 
confidential  with  you ;  win  their  friendship  by  your 
sympathy  in  all  their  concerns,  and  let  them  see  that 
their  interests  and  their  pleasures  are  liberally  pro- 
vided for  in  the  family  arrangements.  Never  dis- 
close their  little  secrets,  however  unimportant  they 
may  seem  to  you ;  never  pain  them  by  an  ill-timed 
joke  ;  never  repress  their  feelings  by  ridicule  ;  but 
be  their  tenderest  friend,  and  then  you  may  becor»« 
their  ablest  adviser.  If  separated  from  them  by  tht 
course  of  school  and  college  education,  make  a  poia 
of  keeping  up  your  intimacy  by  full,  free,  and  affet  j 
tipnate  correspondence ;  and  when  they  return  t;  j 
the  paternal  roof,  at  that  awkward  age  betwe^c  ^ 
youth  and  manhood,  when  reserve  creeps  over  the  < 
mind  like  an  impenetrable  vail,  suffer  it  not  to  inter-  £ 
pose  between  you  and  your  brothers.  Cultivate  their  > 
friendship  and  intimacy  with  all  the  address  and  ten-  \ 
derness  you  possess;  for  it  is  of  unspeakable  iio-  ;! 
portance  to  them  that  their  sisters  should  be  their  \ 
confidential  friends.  Consider  the  loss  of  a  ball  or  ff 
party,  for  the  sake  of  making  the  evening  pass  plea- 
santly to  your  brothers  at  home,  as  a  small  sacrifice 
— one  you  should  unhesitatingly  make.  If  they  go 
into  company  with  you,  see  that  they  are  introduced 
to  the  most  desirable  acquaintances,  and  show 


160  THE   HOM£   MISSION. 


that  you  are  interested  in  their  acquitting  themselves 
well." 

Having  quoted  thus  much  from  the  "  Young  Lady's 
Friend,"  we  feel  inclined  to  give  a  few  passages  more 
from  the  author's  admirable  remarks  on  the  relation 
of  brother  and  sister. 

"  So  many  temptations  beset  young  men,  of  which 
young  women  know  nothing,  that  it  is  of  the  utmost 
importance  that  your  brothers'  evenings  should  be 
happily  passed  at  home ;  that  their  friends  should  be 
your  friends ;  that  their  engagements  should  be  the 
same  as  yours ;    and  that  various  innocent  amuse- 
ments should  be  provided  for  them  in  the  family  cir- 
cle.    Music  is  an  accomplishment  usually  valuable  as 
a  home  enjoyment,  as  rallying  round  the  piano  the 
various  members  of  a  family,  and  harmonizing  their 
hearts,  as  well  as  their  voices,  particularly  in  devo- 
i    tional  strains.     I  know  no  more  agreeable  and  in- 
<    teresting  spectacle  than  that  of  brothers  and  sisters 
playing  and  singing  together  those  elevated  compo- 
;>    sitions  in  music  and  poetry  which  gratify  the  taste  and 
purify  the  heart,  while  their  parents  sit  delighted 
;>    by.    I  have  seen  and  heard  an  elder  sister  thus  leading 
j;    the  family  choir,  who  was  the  soul  of  harmony  to  the 
whole  household,  and  whose  life  was  a  perfect  exam- 
j    pie  of  those  virtues  which  I  am  here  endeavouring  to 
inculcate.     Let  no  one  say,  in  reading  this  chapter, 
that  too  much  is  here  required  of  sisters;  that  no 
one  can  be  expected  to  lead  such  a  self-sacrificing 
life  ;  for  the  sainted  one  to  whom  I  refer  was  all  that 
I  would  ask  my  sister  to  be;  and  a  happier  person 
never  lived.     'To  do  good  and  make  others  happy,'    !; 

I 


BROTHERS.  161 


was  the  rule  of  her  life ;  and  in  this  she  found  the 
art  of  making  herself  so. 

"  Brothers  will  generally  be  found  strongly  opposed 

to  the  slightest  indecorum  in  sisters Their 

intercourse  with  all  sorts  of  men  enables  them  to 
judge  of  the  construction  put  upon  certain  actions, 
and  modes  of  dress  and  speech,  much  better  than 
women  can ;  and  you  will  do  well  to  take  their  ad- 
vice on  all  such  points. 

"  I  have  been  told  by  men,  who  had  passed  un- 
harmed through  the  temptations  of  youth,  that  they 
owed  their  escape  from  many  dangers  to  the  intimate 
companionship  of  affectionate  and  pure-minded  sis- 
ters.  They  have  been  saved  from  a  hazardous  meet- 
ing  with  idle  company  by  some  home  engagement, 
of  which  their  sisters  were  the  charm  ;  they  have  re- 
frained  from  mixing  with  the  impure,  because  they 
would  not  bring  home  thoughts  and  feelings  which 
they  could  not  share  with  those  trusting  and  loving 
friends ;  they  have  put  aside  the  wine-cup,  and  ab- 
stained  from  stronger  potations,  because  they  would 
not  profane  with  their  fumes  the  holj  kiss,  with 
which  they  were  accustomed  to  bid  their  sisters  good- 
night." 


1 


HOME. 


SOCIETY  is  marked  by  greater  and  smaller  divi- 
sions,  as  into  nations,  communities,  and  families. 
A  man  is  a  member  of  the  commonwealth,  a  smaller 
community,  as  a  hamlet  or  city,  and  his  family  at 
the  same  time ;  and  the  more  perfectly  all  his  dutie* 
to  his  family  are  discharged,  the  more  fully  does  he 
discharge  his  duties  to  the  community  and  the  na- 
tion ;  for  a  good  member  of  a  family  cannot  be  a 
bad  member  of  the  commonwealth,  for  he  that  is 
faithful  in  what  is  least,  will  also  be  faithful  in  what 
is  greater.  Indeed,  the  more  perfectly  a  man  fulfils 
all  his  domestic  duties,  the  more  perfectly,  in  that 
very  act,  has  he  discharged  his  duty  to  the  whole ; 
for  the  whole  is  made  up  of  parts,  and  its  health 
depends  entirely  upon  the  health  of  the  various  parts. 
There  are,  of  course,  general  as  well  as  specific 
duties ;  but  the  more  conscientious  a  man  is  in  the 
discharge  of  specific  duties,  the  more  ready  will  he 
be  to  perform  those  that  are  general ;  and  we  believe 
that  the  converse  of  this  will  be  found  equally  true, 
and  that  those  who  have  least  regard  for  home — who 
have,  indeed,  no  home,  no  domestic  circle — are  the 
worst  citizens.  This  the^  may  not  be  apparently; 
they  may  not  break  the  laws,  nor  do  any  thing  to 
call  down  upon  them  censure  from  the  community, 
and  yet,  in  the  secret  and  almost  unconscious  dis- 
semination of  demoralizing  principles,  may  be  doing 

162 


HOME.  1G3 

a  work  far  more  destructive  of  the  public  good  than 
if  they  had  committed  a  robbery. 

We  always  feel  pain  when  we  hear  a  young  man 
speak  lightly  of  home,  and  talk  carelessly,  or,  it 
may  be,  with  sportive  ridicule,  of  the  "  old  man" 
and  the  "  old  woman,"  as  if  they  were  of  but  little 
consequence.  We  mark  it  as  a  bad  indication,  and 
feel  that  the  feet  of  that  young  man  are  treading 
upon  dangerous  ground.  His  home  education  may 
not  have  been  of  the  best  kind,  nor  may  home  influ- 
ences have  reached  his  higher  and  better  feelings ; 
but  he  is  at  least  old  enough  now  to  understand  the 
causes,  and  to  seek  rather  to  bring  into  his  home 
all  that  it  needs  to  render  it  more  attractive,  than 
to  estrange  himself  from  it  and  expose  its  defects. 

Instances  of  this  kind  are  not  of  very  frequent 
occurrence.  Home  has  its  charms  for  nearly  all, 
and  the  very  name  comes  with  a  blessing  to  the 
spirit.  This,  however,  is  more  the  case  with  those 
who  have  been  separated  from  it,  than  it  is  with 
those  who  yet  remain  in  the  old  homestead  with 
parents,  brothers,  and  sisters,  as  their  friends  and 
companions. 

The  earnest  love  of  home,  felt  by  nearly  all  who 
have  been  compelled  to  leave  that  pleasant  place, 
is  a  feeling  that  should  be  tenderly  cherished :  and 
this  love  should  be  kept  alive  by  associations  that 
have  in  them  as  perfect  a  resemblance  of  home  as 
it  is  possible  to  obtain.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  it 
is  bad  for  a  young  man  to  board  in  a  large  hotel, 
where  there  is  nothing  in  which  there  is  even  an 
image  of  the  home-circle.  Each  has  his  separate 
chamber ;  but  that  is  not  home.  All  meet  together 


164  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


at  the  common  table ;  but  there  is  no  home  feeling 
there,  with  its  many  sweet  reciprocations.  The 
meal  completed,  all  separate,  each  to  his  individual 
pursuit  or  pleasure.  There  is  a  parlour,  it  is  true ; 
but  there  are  no  family  gatherings  there.  One  and 
another  sit  there,  as  inclination  prompts ;  but  each 
Bits  alone,  busy  with  his  own  thoughts.  All  this  is 
a  poor  substitute  for  home.  And  yet  it  offers  its 
attractions  to  some.  A  young  man  in  a  hotel  has 
more  freedom  than  in  a  family  or  private  boarding- 
house.  He  comes  in  and  goes  out  unobserved ;  there 
is  no  one  to  say  to  him,  "why?"  or  "wherefore?" 
But  this  is  a  dangerous  freedom,  and  one  which  no 
i  young  man  should  desire. 

But  mere  negative  evils,  so  to  speak,  are  not 
the  worst  that  beset  a  young  man  who  unwisely 
chooses  a  public  hotel  as  a  place  for  boarding.  He 
is  much  more  exposed  to  temptations  there  than  in 
a  private  boarding-house,  or  at  home.  Men  of 
licentious  habits,  in  most  cases,  select  hotels  as 
boarding-places  ;  and  such  rarely  scruple  to  offer  to 
the  ardent  minds  of  young  men,  with  whom  they 
happen  to  fall  in  company,  those  allurements  that 
are  most  likely  to  lead  them  away  from  virtue. 
And,  besides  this,  there  being  no  evening  home- 
circle  in  a  hotel,  a  young  man  who  is  not  engaged 
earnestly  in  some  pursuit  that  occupies  his  hours  of 
leisure  from  business  has  nothing  to  keep  him 
there,  but  is  forced  to  seek  for  something  to  interest 
his  mind  elsewhere,  and  is,  in  consequence,  more 
open  to  temptation. 

Home  is  man's  true  place.  Everj  man  should 
have  a  home.  Here  his  first  duties  lie,  and  here  he 


A    GLEAM    OF   SUNSHINE.  165 


finds  the  strength  by  which  he  is  able  successfully 
to  comba*  in  life's  temptations.  Happy  is  that 
young  man  who  is  still  blessed  with  a  home — who 
has  his  mother's  counsel  and  the  pure  love  of  sisters 
to  strengthen  and  cheer  him  amid  life's  opening 
combats. 


A  GLEAM  OF  SUNSHINE  ON  THE  PATH  OF 
A  MONEY-LENDER. 


MR.  EDGAR  was  a  money-lender,  and  scrupled  not 
in  exacting  the  highest  "street  rates"  of  interest 
that  could  be  obtained.  If  good  paper  were  offered, 
and  he  could  buy  it  from  the  needy  seeker  of  cash 
at  two  or  even  three  per  cent,  a  month,  he  did  not 
hesitate  about  the  transaction  on  any  scruples  of 
justice  between  man  and  man.  Below  one  per  cent. 
a  month,  he  rarely  made  loans.  He  had  nothing  to 
do  with  the  question,  as  to  whether  the  holder  of 
bills  could  afford  the  sacrifice.  The  circle  of  his 
thoughts  went  not  beyond  gain  to  himself. 

Few  days  closed  with  Mr.  Edgar  that  he  was  not 
able  to  count  up  gains  as  high  as  from  thirty  to  one 
hundred  dollars :  not  acquired  in  trade — not  com- 
ing back  to  him  as  the  reward  of  productive  industry 
— but  the  simple  accumulation  of  large  clippings 

j    from  the  anticipated   reward  of  others'   industry. 

j    Always  with  a  good  balance  in  bank,  he  had  but  to 


166  THE    HOME   MISSION. 

sign  his  name  to  a  check,  and  the  slight  effort  was 
repaid  by  a  gain  of  from  ten  to  fifty  dollars,  ac- 
cording to  the  size  and  time  of  the  note  he  had 
agreed  to  discount.  A  shrewd  man,  and  well  ac- 
quainted with  the  business  standing  of  all  around 
him,  Mr.  Edgar  rarely  made  mistakes  in  money 
transactions.  There  was  always  plenty  of  good 
paper  offering,  and  he  never  touched  any  thing  re- 
garded as  doubtful. 

Was  Mr.  Edgar  a  happy  man  ?  Ah !  that  is  a 
home  question.  But  we  answer  frankly,  no.  Dur- 
ing his  office  hours,  while  his  love  of  gain  was  active 
— while  good  customers  were  coming  and  going,  and 
gt>od  operations  being  effected — his  mind  was  in  a 
pleasurable  glow.  '.But,  at  other  times,  he  suffered 
greatly  from  a  pressure  on  his  feelings,  the  cause 
of  which  he  did  not  clearly  understand.  Wealth  he 
had  always  regarded  as  the  greatest  good  in  life. 
And  now  he  not  only  had  wealth,  but  the  income 
therefrom  was  a  great  deal  more  than  he  had  any 
desire  to  spend.  And  yet  he  was  not  happj- — no, 
not  even  in  the  thought  of  his  large  possessions. 
Only  in  the  mental  activity  through  which  more  was 
obtained,  did  he  really  find  satisfaction ;  but  this 
state  was  only  of  short  duration. 

Positive  unhappiness,  Mr.  Edgar  often  experienced. 
Occasional  losses,  careful  and  shrewd  as  he  always 
•was,  were  inevitable.  These  fretted  him  greatly. 
To  lose  a  thousand  dollars,  instead  of  gaining,  as 
was  pleasantly  believed,  some  sixty  or  seventy,  was 
a  shower  of  cold  water  upon  his  ardent  love  of  ac- 
cumulaticn:  and  he  shivered  painfully  under  the 
infliction  The  importunities  of  friends  who  needed 


A  GLEAM    OF   SUNSHINE.  167 


•noney,  and  to  whom  it  was  unsafe  to  lend  it,  were 
also  a  source  of  no  small  annoyance.  And,  more- 
over, there  was  little  of  the  heart's  warm  sunshine 
at  home.  As  Mr.  Edgar  had  thought  more  of  lay- 
ing up  wearth  for  his  children  than  giving  them  the 
true  riches  of  intellect  and  heart,  ill  weeds  had 
sprung  up  in  their  minds.  He  had  not  loved  them 
with  an  unselfish  love,  and  he  received  not  a  higher 
affecuon  than  he  had  bestowed.  Their  prominent 
thought,  in  regard  to  him,  seemed  ever  to  be  the  ob- 
taining of  some  concession  to  their  real  or  imaginary 
wants ;  and,  if  denied  these,  they  reacted  upon  him 
in  an^r,  sullenness,  or  complaint. 

Oh,  no  !  Mr.  Edgar  was  not  happy.  Few  gleams 
of  sur^hine  lay  across  his  path.  Life  to  him,  in  his 
own  Litter  words,  uttered  after  some  keen  disap- 
pointment, had  "proved  a  failure."  And  yet  he 
continued  eager  for  gain  ;  would  cut  as  deep,  exact 
as  much  from  those  who  had  need  of  his  money  in 
their  easiness,  as  ever.  The  measure  of  per  centage 
was  tne  measure  of  his  satisfaction. 

One  day  a  gentleman  said  to  him — 

"  Mr.  Edgar,  I  advised  a  young  mechanic  who 
has  been  in  business  for  a  short  time,  and  who  haa 
to  take  notes  for  his  work,  to  call  on  you  for  the 
purpose  of  getting  them  cashed.  He  has  no  credit 
in  bank,  and  is,  therefore,  compelled  to  go  upon  the 
street  for  money.  Most  of  his  work  is  taken  by  one 
of  the  safest  houses  in  the  city;  his  paper  is, 
therefore,  as  good  as  any  in  market.  Deal  as 
moderately  with  him  as  you  can.  He  knows  little 
about  these  matters,  or  where  to  go  for  the  accom- 
modation he  n?eds." 


168  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


"  Is  he  an  industrious  and  prudent  young  man  ?" 
inquired  Mr.  Edgar,  caution  and  cupidity  at  once 
excited. 

"  He  is." 

"  What's  his  name  ?" 

"Blakewell." 

"  Oh,  I  know  him.  Very  well ;  send  him  along, 
and  if  his  paper  is  good,  I'll  discount  it." 

"You'll  find  it  first-rate,"  said  the  gentleman. 

"  How  much  shall  I  charge  him  ?"  This  was  Mr.  ; 
Edgar's  first  thought,  so  soon  as  he  was  alone.  Even  <! 
as  he  asked  himself  the  question,  the  young  mechanic  \ 
entered. 

"You  take  good  paper,  sometimes?"  said  the  } 
latter,  in  a  hesitating  manner. 

The  countenance  of  Mr.  Edgar  became,  instantly,  > 
very  grave. 

"  Sometimes  I  do,"  he  answered,  with  assumed 
indifference. 

"I  have  a  note  of  Leyden  &  Co.'s  that  I  wish 
discounted,"  said  Blakewell. 

"  For  how  much  ?" 

"  Three  hundred  dollars — six  months  ;"  and  ;he 
handed  Mr.  Edgar  the  note. 

"I  don't  like  over  four  months'  notes,"  remarked 
the  money-lender,  coldly.  Then  he  asked,  "  What 
rate  of  interest  do  you  expect  to  pay  ?" 

"  Whatever  is  usual.  Of  course,  I  wish  to  get  it 
done  as  low  as  possible.  My  profits  are  not  large, 
and  every  dollar  I  pay  in  discounts  is  so  much  taken 

from  the  growth  of  -my  business  and  the  comfort  of 

r     -i    » 
?    my  tamily. 

4  You  have  a  family?" 

**--• 


I 
A   GLEAM   OF   SUNSHINE.  169     \ 


"Yes,  sir.     A  wife  and  four  children." 

Mr.  Edgar  mused  for  a  moment  or  two.  An 
unselfish  thought  was  struggling  to  get  into  his 
mind. 

"  What  have  you  usually  paid  on  this  paper  ?"  ho 
asked. 

"  The  last  I  had  discounted  cost  me  one  and  a 
half  per  cent,  a  month." 

"  Notes  of  this  kind  are  rarely  marketable  below 
that  rate,"  said  Mr.  Edgar.  He  had  thought  of 
exacting  two  per  cent.  "  If  you  will  leave  the  note, 
and  call  round  in  half  an  hour,  I  will  see  what  can 
be  done." 

"Very  well,"  returned  the  mechanic.      "Be  as    < 
moderate  with  me  as  you  can." 

For  the  half  hour  that  went  by  during  the  young 
man's  absence,  Mr.  Edgar  walked  the  floor  of  his 
counting-room,  trying  to  come  to  some  decision  in    \ 
regard  to  the  note.     Love  of  gain  demanded  two    '< 
per  cent,   a  month,  while  a  feeble  voice,  scarcely    £ 
heard  so  far  away  did  it  seem,  pleaded  for  a  generous    ; 
regard  to  the  young  man's  necessities.     The  conflict    1 
taking  place  in  his  mind  was  a  new  one  for  the    \ 
money-lender.     In  no  instance  before  had  he  expe- 
rienced any  hesitation  on  the  score  of  a  large  dis-     \ 
count.     Love  of  gain  continued  clamorous  for  two    > 
per  cent,  on  the  note ;  yet.  ever  and  anon,  the  low 
voice  stole,  in  pleading  accents,  to  his  ears. 

"I'll  do  it  for  one  and  a  half,"  said  Mr.  Edgar, 
yielding  slightly  to  the  claim  of  humanity,  urged  by 
the  voice,  that  seemed  to  be  coming  nearer. 

Lcve  of  gain,  after  slight  opposition,  was  satisfied. 

~15 


r 

>      170  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


But  tie  low,  penetrating  voice  asked  for  something 
better  still. 

"Weakness!  Folly!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Edgar. 
"  I'd  better  make  him  a  present  of  the  money  at 
once." 

It  availed  nothing.  The  voice  could  not  be 
hushed. 

"  One  per  cent !  He  couldn't  get  it  done  as  low 
as  that  in  the  city." 

"  He  is  a  poor  young  man,  and  has  a  wife  and 
four  little  children,"  said  the  voice.  "Even  the 
abstraction  of  legal  interest  from  his  hard  earnings 
is  defect  enough ;  to  lose  twice  that  sum,  will  make 
a  heavy  draught  on  his  profits,  which,  under  the 
present  competition  in  trade,  are  not  large.  He  is 
honest  and  industrious,  and  by  his  useful  labour  is 
aiding  the  social  well-being.  Is  it  right  for  you  to 
get  his  reward  ? — to  take  his  profits,  and  add  them 
<;  to  your  already  rich  accumulations?" 

Mr.  Edgar  did  not  like  these  home  questions,  and 
tried  to  stop  his  ears,  so  that  the  voice  could  not  find 
an  entrance.  But  he  tried  in  vain. 

"Bank  rates  on  this  note,"  continued  the  inward 

voice,  "  would  not  much  exceed  nine  dollars.     Even 

this  is  a  large  sum  for  a  poor  man  to  lose.     Double 

j;    the  rate  of  interest,  and  the  loss  becomes  an  injury 

;.    to  bis  business,  or  the  cause  of  seriously  abridging 

j;    his  home  comforts.     And  how  much  will  nine  dollars 

t>    contribute  to  your  happiness  ?     Not  so  much  as  a 

jot  or  a  tittle.     You  are  unable,  now,  to  spend  your 

>    income." 

The  young  mechanic  entered  at  this  favourable 
mcrnent.  The  money  lender  pointed  to  a  chair; 


A   GLEAM    OF   SUNSHINE.  171 


then  turned  to  his  desk,  and  filled  up,  hurrieily,  a 
check.  Blakewell  glanced  at  the  amount  thereof  AS 
it  was  handed  to  him,  and  an  instant  flush  of  surprise 
came  into  his  face. 

"Haven't  you  made  a  mistake,  Mr.  Edgar?" 
said  he. 

"  In  what  respect  ?" 

"The  note  was  for  three  hundred  dollars,  six 
months,  and  you  have  given  me  a  check  for  two 
hundred  and  ninety  dollars,  forty-three  cents." 

"  I've  charged  you  bank  interest,"  said  Mr.  Edgar, 
with  a  feeling  of  pleasure  at  his  heart  so  new,  that 
it  sent  a  glow  along  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  his 
being. 

"Bank  interest!  I  did  not  expect  this,  sir,"  re- 
plied the  young  man,  visibly  moved.  "For  less 
than  one  and  a  half  per  cent,  a  month,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  obtain  mrnr^^jOne  per  cent.  I  wou' 
have  paid  you  cheerfully.  Eign^feen  dollars  saved . 
How  much  good  that  sum  will  do  me  !  I  could  not 
have  saved  it — or,  I  might  say,  have  received  it — 
more  opportunely.  This  is  a  kindness  for  which  I 
shall  ever  remember  you  gratefully." 

Grasping  the  money-lender's  hand,  he  shook  it 
warmly ;  then  turned  and  hurried  away. 

Only  one  previous  transaction  had  that  day  been 
made  by  Mr.  Edgar.  In  tkat  transaction,  his  gain 
was  fifty  dollars,  and  much  pleasure  had  it  given 
him.  But  the  delight  experienced  was  not  to  be 
compared  with  what  he  now  felt.  It  was  to  him  a 
new  experience  in  life — a  realization  of  that  beautiful 
truth,  "It  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive." 

Once  or  tv  ice  during  the  day,  as  Mr.  Edgar  dwe 


172  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


on  the  little  circumstance,  his  natural  love  of  gain 
caused  regret  for  the  loss  of  money  involved  in  the 
transaction  to  enter  his  mind.  How  cold,  moody, 
and  uncomfortable  he  instantly  became  !  Self-love 
was  seeking  to  rob  the  money-lender  of  the  just 
reward  of  a  good  deed.  But  the  voice  which  had 
prompted  the  generous  act  was  heard,  clear  and 
sweet,  and  again  his  heart  beat  to  a  gladder 
measure. 

Evening  was  closing  in  on  the  day  following.  It 
was  late  in  December,  and  winter  had  commenced 
in  real  earnest.  Snow  had  fallen  for  some  hours. 
Now,  however,  the  sky  was  clear,  but  the  air  keen  J 
and  frosty.  The  day,  to  Mr.  Edgar,  was  one  in  } 
which  more  than  the  usual  number  of  "  good  trans-  ( 
actions"  had  been  made.  On  one  perfectly  safe  note  j 
he  had  been  able  to  charge  as  high  as  three  per  cent,  i 
per  month.  Full  of  pleasurable  excitement  had  his  \ 
mind  been  while  thus  gathering  in  gain,  but  now,  \ 
the  excitement  being  over,  he  was  oppressed.  From  > 
whence  the  pressure  came,  he  did  not  know.  A  '< 
cloud  usually  fell  upon  his  spirits  with  the  closing  \ 
day ;  and  there  was  not  sunshine  enough  at  home  to  ] 
chase  it  from  his  sky. 

As  Mr.  Edgar  walked  along,  with  his  eyes  upon  b 
the  pavement,  his  name  was  called.  Looking  .; 
up,  he  saw,  standing  at  the  open  door  of  a  small  ;j 
house,  the  mechanic  "he  had  befriended  on  the  day  i 
before.  > 

"  Step  in  here  just  one  moment,"  said  the  young  <j 
man.  The  request  was  made  in  a  way  that  left  Mr.  ; 
Edgar  no  alternative  but  compliance.  So  he  entered  £ 
the  humble  dwelling.  He  found  himself  in  a  small,  ! 


A    GLLAM 

unlighted  room,  adjoining  one  in  which  a  lamp  was 
burning,  and  in  which  was  a  young  woman,  plainly 
but  neatly  dressed,  and  four  children,  the  youngest 
lying  in  a  cradle.  The  woman  held  in  her  hand  a 
warm  Bay  State  shawl,  which,  after  examining  a 
few  moments,  with  a  pleased  expression  of  counte- 
nance, she  threw  over  her  shoulders,  and  glanced  at 
herself  in  a  looking-glass.  The  oldest  of  the  chil- 
dren, a  boy,  was  trying  on  a  new  overcoat ;  and  hia 
sister,  two  years  younger,  had  a  white  muff  and  a 
warm  woollen  shawl,  in  which  her  attention  was  com- 
pletely absorbed.  A  smaller  child  had  a  new  cap, 
and  he  was  the  most  pleased  of  any. 

"  Oh,  isn't  father  good  to  buy  us  all  these  ?  and 
we  wanted  them  so  much,"  said  the  oldest  of  the 
children.  "  Yesterday  morning,  when  I  told  him 
how  cold  I  was  going  to  school,  he  said  he  was 
sorry,  but  that  I  must  try  and  do  without  a  coat 
this  winter,  for  he  hadn't  money  enough  to  get  us 
all  we  wanted.  How  did  he  get  more  money, 
mother?" 

"  To  a  kind  gentleman,  who  helped  your  father,  !> 
we  are  indebted  for  these  needed  comforts,"  replied  ; 
the  mother. 

"He must  be  a  good  man, ' '  said  the  boy.  "  What's  ; 
his  name?" 

"  His  name  is  Mr.  Edgar."  s 

"  I  will  ask  God  to  bless  him  to-night  when  I  say    .j 
my  prayers,"  innocently  spoke  out  the  youngest  of 
the  three  children. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  asked  the  money- 
\    lender,  as  he  hastily  retired  from  the  room  he  had    ; 
'/    entered. 

L 


f      174     "  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


"If  you  had  charged  me  one  per  cent,  on  my 
note,  this  scene  would  never  have  occurred,"  answered 
the  mechanic.  "With  the  sum  you  generously 
saved  me,  I  was  ahle  to  buy  these  comforts.  My 
heart  blesses  you  for  the  deed ;  and  if  the  good 
wishes  of  my  happy  family  can  tljrow  sunshine 
across  your  path,  it  will  be  full  of  brightness." 

Too  much  affected  to  reply,  Mr.  Edgar  returned 
;  the  warm  pressure  of  the  hand  which  had  grasped 
;  his,  and  glided  away. 

A  gleam  of  sunshine  had  indeed  fallen  along  the 
pathway  of  the  money-lender.  Home  had  a  brighter 
look  as  he  passed  his  own  threshold.  He  felt  kinder 
and  more  cheerful ;  and  kindness  and  cheerfulness 
flowed  back  to  him  from  all  the  inmates  of  his  dwell- 
ing. He  half  wondered  at  the  changed  aspect  worn 
by  every  thing.  His  dreams  that  night  were  not 
of  losses,  fires,  and  the  wreck  of  dearly-cherished 
hopes,  but  of  the  humble  home  made  glad  by  his 
generous  kindness.  Again  the  happy  mother,  the 
pleased  children,  and  the  grateful  father,  were 
before  him,  and  his  own  heart  leaped  with  a  new 
delight. 

"  It  was  a  small  act — a  very  light  sacrifice  on  my 
part,"  said  Mr.  Edgar  to  himself,  as  he  walked,  in 
'?  a  musing  mood,  toward  his  office  on  the  next  morn- 
ing. "  And  yet  of  how  much  real  happiness  has  it 
been  the  occasion !  So  much  that  a  portion  thereof 
has  flowed  back  upon  my  own  heart." 

"A  good  act  is  twice  blessed."  It  seemed  as  if 
the  words  were  spoken  aloud,  so  distinctly  and  so 
suddenly  were  they  presented  to  the  mind  of  Mr. 
Edgar. 

X^-.-v.-y 


ENGAGED   AT   SIXTEEN.  175 

Ah,  if  he  will  only  heed  that  suggestion,  made 

;    Dy  some  pure  spirit,  brought  near  to  him  by  the 

stirring  of  good  affections  in  his  mind !     In   it  lies 

the  secret  of  true  happiness.     Let  him  but  act  there- 

j    from,  and  tke  sunshine  will  never  be  absent  from 

;    his  pathway. 

j 

ENGAGED  AT   SIXTEEN. 

"MRS.  LEE  is  quite  fortunate  with  her  daughters," 
J  remarked  a  visitor  to  Mrs.  Wyman,  whose  oldest 
<  child,  a  well  grown  girl  of  fifteen,  was  sitting  by. 

"  Yes ;  Kate  and  Harriet  went  off  in  good  time. 
She  has  only  Fanny  left." 

"Who  is  to  be  married  this  winter." 

"Fanny?" 

"  She  is  engaged  to  Henry  Florence." 

"  Indeed !  And  she  is  only  just  turned  of  six- 
teen. How  fortunate,  truly !  Some  people  have 
their  daughters  on  their  hands  until  they  are  two  j. 
or  three-and-twenty,  when  the  chances  for  good 
matches  are  very  low.  /  was  only  sixteen  when  1 
was  married." 

"You?" 

"  Certainly ;  and  then  I  had  rejected  two  or  thret 
young  men.     There  is  nothing  like  early  marriages, 
depend  upon  it,  Mis.  Clayton.     They  always  turn     \ 
out  the  best.     The  most  desirable  young  men  take 


176  THE    HOME    MISSION. 


their  pick  of  the  youngest  girls,  and  leave  the  older 
ones  for  second-rate  claimants." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  Anna?"  Mrs.  Clayton  said, 
laughing,  as  she  turned  to  Mrs.  Wyman's  daughter. 
"  I  hope  you  will  not  remain  a  moment  later  than    ; 
your  mother  did  upon  the  maiden  list." 

Anna  blushed  slightly,  but  did  not  reply.  What  \ 
had  been  said,  however,  made  its  impression  on  her  J 
mind.  She  felt  that  to  be  engaged  early  was  a  ;j 
matter  greatly  to  be  desired. 

"  My  mother  was  married  at  sixteen,  and  here  am  5 
I  fifteen,  and  without  a  lover."  So  thought  Anna,  >, 
as  she  paused  over  the  page  of  a  new  novel,  some  !• 
hours  after  she  had  listened  to  the  conversation  that  s 
passed  between  her  mother  and  Mrs.  Clayton,  and  ) 
mused  of  love  and  matrimony. 

From  that  time,  Anna  Wyman  was  another  girl.  <; 
The  sweet  simplicity  of  manner,  the  unconscious  in-  $ 
nocence  peculiar  to  her  age,  gradually  vanished.  ^ 
Her  eye,  that  was  so  clear  and  soft  with  the  light  \ 
of  girlhood's  pleasant  fancies,  grew  earnest  and  rest- 
less, and,  at  times,  intensely  bright.  The  whole  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance  was  new.  It  was  no 
longer  a  placid  sky,  with  scarce  a  cloud  floating  in 
its  quiet  depths,  but  changeful  as  April,  with  its 
tears  and  smiles  blending  in  strange  beauty.  Her 
heart,  that  had  long  beat  tranquilly,  would  now 
bound  at  a  thought,  and  send  the  bright  crimson  to 
her  cheek — would  flutter  at  the  sight  of  .the  very 
individual  whom  she,  a  short  time  before,  could  meet 
without  a  single  wave  ruffling  the  surface  of  her  feel- 
ings. The  woman  had  suddenly  displaced  the  girl ; 
a  sisterly  regard,  that  pure  affection  which  an  inno- 


ENGAGED    AT   SIXTEEN.  177     \ 


cent  maiden's  heart  has  for  all  around  her  had  expired 
on  the  altar  where  was  kindling  up  the  deep  passion 
called  love.  And  yet  Anna  Wyman  had  not  reached 
her  sixteenth  year. 

All  at  once,  she  became  restless,  capricious,  un- 
happy. She  had  been  at  school  up  to  this  period, 
but  now  insisted  that  she  was  too  old  for  that ;  her 
mother  seconded  this  view  of  the  matter,  and  her 
father,  a  man  of  pretty  good  sense,  had  to  yield. 

"  We  must  give  Anna  a  party  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Wyman,  after  their  daughter  had  left  school. 

"  Why  so  ?"  asked  the  father. 

"  Oh — because  it  is  time  that  she  was  beginning  to 
j;    come  out." 
l,        "  Come  out,  how  ?" 

'•'       "  You  are  stupid,  man.     Come  out  in  the  list  of 
s   young  ladies.     Go  into  company." 
|        "But  she  is  a  mere  child,  yet — not  sixteen." 

"  Not  sixteen  !    And  how  old  was  J,  pray,  when 
<   you  married  me  ?" 

The  husband  did  not  reply. 

"  How  old  was  I,  Mr.  Wyman?" 

"  4bout  sixteen,  I  believe." 

"  Well ;  and  was  I  a  mere  child  ?" 

"  STou  were  rather  young  to  marry,  at  least,"  Mr. 
Wyjaun  ventured  to  say.     This  remark  was  made     > 
rather  too  feelingly. 

"  Too  young  to  marry  !"  ejaculated  the  wife,  in  a  \ 
tone  of  surprise  and  indignation — "too  young  to  j; 
•tarry ;  and  my  husband  to  say  so,  too !  Mr.  lt 
Wyman,  do  you  mean  to  intimate — do  you  mean  < 
to  say  ? — Mr.  Wyman,  what  do  you  mean  by  that  \ 
remark  ?" 


,';      178  THE    HOME   MISSION. 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all,"  soothingly  replied  the  hus 
band ;  "  only  that  I" 

"What?" 

"  That  I  don't,  as  a  general  thing,  approve  of  very 
early  marriages.  The  character  of  a  young  lady  is  \ 
not  formed  before  twenty-one  or  two ;  nor  has  she  ; 
gained  that  experience  and  knowledge  of  the  world  ! 
that  will  enable  her  to  choose  with  wisdom." 

"  You  don't  pretend  to  say  that  my  character  was  i 
$  not  formed  at  sixteen  ?"  This  was  accompanied  by  ; 
>  a  threatening  look. 

Whatever  his  thoughts  were,  Mr.  Wyman  took    ; 
good  care  not  to  express  them.     He  merely  said —     j; 

"  I  believe,  Margaret,  that  I  haven't  volunteered    ; 
any  allusion  to  you." 

"  Yes,  but  you  don't  approve  of  early  marriages." 

"  True." 

"  Well,  didn't  I  marry  at  sixteen  ?  And  isn't  your  ; 
•;  opinion  a  reflection  upon -your  wife?" 

"  Circumstances  alter  cases,"  smilingly  returned    ;; 

j;    Mr.  Wyman.      "  Few  women  at  sixteen  were  like    • 

you.     Very  certainly  your  daughter  is  not." 

"There  I  differ  with  you,  Mr.  Wyman.  I  believe 
our  Anna  would  make  as  good  a  wife  now  as  I  did 
at  sixteen.  She  is  as  much  of  a  woman  in  appear- 
ance ;  her  mind  is  more  matured,  and  her  education 
advanced  far  beyond  what  mine  was.  She  deserves 
<  a  good  husband,  and  must  have  one  before  the  lapse 
of  another  year." 

"  How  can  you  talk  so,  Margaret  ?  For  my  part, 
I  do  not  wish  to  see  her  married  for  at  least  five 
years." 

"  Preposterous !     I  wouldn't  give  a  cent  for  a 


ENGAGED    AT   SIXTEEN.  179 


marriage  that  takes  place  after  seventeen  or  eighteen. 
They  are  always  indifferent  affairs,  and  rarely  ever 
turn  out  well.  The  earlier  the  better,  depend  upon 
it  First  love  and  first  lover,  is  my  motto." 

"  Well,  Margaret,  I  suppose  you  will  have  these 
matters  your  own  way ;  but  I  don't  agree  with  yon    \ 
for  all." 

"  Anna  must  have  a  party." 
"  You  can  do  as  you  like." 
"  But  you  must  assent  to  it." 
"  How  can  I  do  that,  if  I  don't  approve?" 
"  But  you  must  approve." 
And  Mrs.  Wyman  persevered  until  she  made  him    fi 
;>    approve — at  least  do  so  apparently.    And  so  a  party 
i{   was  given  to  Anna,  at  which  she  was  introduced  to    \ 
t    several  dashing  young  men,  whose  attentions  almost    j 
<;    turned  her  young  head.     In  two  weeks  she  had  a 
$    confidante,  a  young  lady  named  Clara  Spenser,  not    j 
J    much  older  than  herself.    The  progress  already  made    £ 
;    by  Anna  in  love  matters  will  appear  in  the  follow-    $ 
•,    ing  conversation  held  in  secret  with  Clara. 

"Did  you  say  Mr.  Carpenter  had  been  to  see  you 
•1    since  the  party  ?"  asked  Clara. 

"Yes,  indeed," was  the  animated  reply. 
"  He's  a  love  of  a  man  ! — the  very  one  of  all  others 
'i    that  I  would  set  my  cap  for,  if  there  was  any  hope. 
:    But  you  will,  no  doubt,  carry  him  off." 

Anna  coloured  to  the  temples,  half  with  confusion 
j    and  half  with  delight. 

"  He  used  to  pay  attention  to  Jane  Sherman,  I'm 
told." 

"  Yes ;  but  you've  cut  her  out  entirely.     Didn't 

J 


r 


180  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


you  notice  how  unhappy  she  seemed  at  the  par 
whenever  he  was  with  you  ?" 

"No;  was  she?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  everybody  noticed  it.  But  you  can 
carry  off  all  of  her  beaux ;  she's  a  mere  drab  of  a 
girl.  And,  besides,  she's  getting  on  the  old  maids' 
list ;  I'm  told  she's  more  than  twenty." 

"She  is?" 

"  It's  true." 

"  Oh,  dear ;"  there's  no  fear  of  her  then.  If  I 
were  to  go  over  sixteen  before  I  married,  I  should  be 
frightened  to  death." 

"Suppose  Carpenter  offers  himself?" 

"  I  hope  he  won't  just  yet." 

"Why?" 

"  I  want  two  or  three  strings  to  my  bow.  It  would    :> 
be  dangerous  to  reject  one  unless  I  had  another   5 
\    in  my  eye." 

"Reject?     Nonsense!     Why  should   you  reject 
\    an  offer?" 

"  My  mother  had  three  offers  before  she  was  six- 
teen, and  rejected  two  of  them." 

"Was  she  married  so  early  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes ;  she  was  a  wife  at  sixteen,  and  I'm  not   i; 
going  to  be  a  day  later,  if  possible.     I'd  like  to  de-    s 
cline  three  offers  and  get  married  into  the  bargain 
Defore  a  year  passes.     Wouldn't  that  be  admirable  ? 
It  would  be  something  to  boast  of  all  my  life." 

Pretty  well  advanced ! — the  reader  no  doubt  ex-    \ 

claims ;  and  so  our  young  lady  certainly  was.     When    \ 

'    a  very  young  girl  gets  into  love  matters,  she  "does 

them  up,"  as  the  saying  is,  quite  fast ;  she  doesn't 

mince  matters  af  all.     A  maiden  of  twenty  is  cooler, 


ENGAGED   AT   SIXTEEN. 


more  though  f,ful,  and  more  cautious.  She  thinks  a 
good  deal,  and  is  very  careful  how  she  lets  any  one 
— even  her  confidante,  if  she  should  happen  to  have 
•»ne,  (which  is  doubtful) — know  much  beyond  her 
mere  external  thoughts.  Four  or  five  years  make 
a  good  deal  of  difference  in  these  things.  But  this 
ueed  hardly  have  been  said. 

"  You  are  going  to  Mrs.  Ashton's  on  Wednesday 
evening,  of  course  ?"  said  Clara  Spenser  to  Anna,  on 
visiting  her  one  morning,  some  weeks  after  the  in- 
troduction to  Carpenter  had  taken  place. 

"  Oh,  certainly ;  their  soire'es,  I'm  told,  are  elegant 
affairs." 

"  Indeed  they  are ;  I've  been  to  two  of  them.  Fine 
music,  pleasant  company,  and  so  much  freedom  of 
intercourse — oh,  they  are  delightful  1" 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Mr.  Carpenter  there  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes;  he  always  attends." 

"I  shall  enjoy  myself  highly." 

"That  you  will — the  young  men  are   so   atten-   > 
tlve." 

Wednesday  night  soon  came  round,  and  Anna  was 
ermitted  to  go,  unattended  by  either  of  her  parents,    ff 
to  the  so-called  soiree  at  Mrs.  Ashton's.  As  she  had    \ 
hoped  and  believed,  Carpenter  was  there.    His  atten-    \ 
tions  to  her  were  constant  and  flattering ;  he  poured 
many  compliments  into  her  ears,  talking  to  her  all 
the  time  in  a  low,  musical  tone.     Anna's  heart  flut- 
tered in  her  bosom  with  pleasure ;  she  felt  that  she 
had  made  a  conquest.     But  the  fact  of  bringing  so 
charming    a   young  man  to  her  feet,  and   that  so 
speedily,  quickened  her  pride,  and  made  it  seem  the 
thing  in  the  world  to  be  able  to  reject  three 

16 


182  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


lovers  and  yet  be  engaged,  or  even  married,  at  six 
teen. 

Besides  Carpenter,  there  was  another  present  who 
saw  attractions  about  Anna  Wymaij.  He  wore  a 
moustache,  and  made  quite  a  dashing  appearance. 
In  the  language  of  many  young  ladies,  who  admired 
him,  he  was  an  elegant-looking  young  man — -just  the 
one  to  be  proud  of  as  a  beau.  His  name  was  Elliott. 

As  soon  as  he  could  get  access  to  the  ear  of  the 
young  and  inexperienced  girl,  he  charmed  it  with  a 
<;  deeper  charm  than  Carpenter  had  been  able  to  in 
part.  She  felt  almost  like  one  within  a  magic  circle. 
His  eye  fascinated  her,  and  his  voice  murmured  in 
her  ear  like  low,  sweet  music. 

A  short  time  before  parting  from  her,  he  said — 
"  Miss  Wyman,  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of  calling 
upon  you  at  your  father's  house  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  sir ;  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you," 
She  spoke  with  feeling. 

"  Then  I  shall  visit  you  frequently.  In  your  so- 
ciety I  promise  myself  much  happiness.'' 

Anna's  eyes  fell  to  the  floor,  and  the  colour  deep 
ened  on  her  cheeks.     When  she  looked  up,  Elliott 
was  gazing  steadily  in  her  face,  with  an  expression 
of  admiration  and  love. 

Her  heart  was  lost.  Carpenter,  that  love  of  a 
man,  was  not  thought  of — or,  only  as  one  of  her  re- 
jected lovers. 

When  Anna  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow  that 
night,  it  was  not  to  sleep.  Her  mind  was  too  full  of 
pleasant  images,  central  to  all  of  which  was  the  ele- 
gant, accomplished,  handsome  Mr.  Elliott.  He  had, 
she  conceited,  as  good  as  offered  himself,  and 


ENGAGED   AT    SIXTEEEN.  183 

much  as  she  wished  to  reject  three  lovers  before  she 
accepted  one,  felt  strongly  inclined  to  accept  him, 
and  so  end  the  matter. 

Now,  who  was  Mr.  Thomas  Elliott  ?     A  few  words 
will  portray  him.     Mr.  Elliott  was  twenty-six ;  he 
kept  a  store  in  the  city ;  had  been  in  business  for 
some  years,  but  was  not  very  successful.     His  habits 
of  life  were  not  good ;  his  principles  had  no  sound, 
moral  basis.     He  was,  in  fact,  just  the  man  to  make 
a  silly  child' like  Anna  Wyman  wretched  for  life. 
But  why  did  he  seek  for  one  like  her  ?  That  is  easily 
explained.     Mr.  Wyman  was  reputed  to  be  pretty 
well  off  in  the  world,  and  Mr.  Elliott's  affairs  were  in 
rather  a  precarious  condition ;  but  he  managed  to 
keep  so  good  a  face  upon  the  matter,  that  none  sus- 
pected his  real  condition. 
>       After  visiting  Anna  for  a  short  tune,  he  offered 
j   his  hand.     If  it  had  not  been  that   her   sixteenth 
4    birthday  was  so  near,  Anna  would  have  declined  the 
;    offer,  for  Thomas  Elliott  did  not  grow  dearer  to  her 
j;    every  day.     There  were  young  men  whom  she  liked 
much  better ;  and  if  they  had  only  come  forward  and 
presented  their  claims  to  favour,  she  would  have  de- 
£    clinecl  the  offer.    But  time  was  rapidly  passing  away. 
£    Anna  was  ambitious  of  being  engaged  before  she  was 
';    sixteen,  and  married,  if  possible.     Her  mother  had 
ij    rejected  two  offers,  and  she  was  anxious  to  do  as 
!•    much.     Here  was  a  chance  for  one  rejection — but 
s    was  she  sure  of  another  offer  in  time  ?     No !     There    ; 
;    was  the  difficulty.     For  some  days  she  debated  the    ; 
question,  and  then  laid  it  before  her  mother.     Mrs. 
Wyman  consulted  her  husband,  who  did  not  much 
like  Elliott ;  but  the  mother  felt  the  necessity  of  an    ; 
!  \ 


184  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


early  marriage,  and  overruled  all  objections.  Her  \ 
advice  to  Anna  "was  to  accept  the  offer,  and  it  was  '; 
accepted  accordingly. 

A  fond,  wayward  child  of  sixteen  may  chance  to    s 
marry  and  do  well,  spite  of  all  the  drawbacks  she    < 
will  meet ;  but  this  is  only  in  case  she  happen  to    ;j 
marry  a  man  of  good  sense,  warm  affections,  and    <, 
great  kindness,  who  can  bear  with  her  as  a  father   ;> 
bears  with  a  capricious  child ;  can  forgive  much  and    \ 
love  much.     But  give  the  happiness  of  such  a  crea- 
ture into  the  keeping  of  a  cold,  narrow-minded,  self- 
ish, petulant  man,  and  her  cup  will  soon  run  over,    j 
Bitter,  indeed,  will  be  her  lot  in  life. 

Just  such  a  man  was  Thomas  Elliott.     He  had   ^ 
sought  only  his  own  pleasures,  and  had  owned  no    \ 
law  but  his  own  will.     For  more  than  ten  years  he   j 
had  been  living  without  other  external  restraints  than   s 
those  social  laws  that  all  must  observe  who  desire  to   j 
keep  a  fair  reputation.    He  came  in  when  he  pleased 
and  went  out  when  he  pleased.     He  required  service 
from  all,  and  gave  it  to  none — that  is,  so  far  as  he    J 
needed  service,  he  exacted  it  from  those  under  him,   ] 
but  was  not  in  the  habit  of  making  personal  sacrifices 
for  the  sake  of  others.     Thus,  his  natural  selfishness 
was  confirmed.     Whek  he  married,  it  was  with  an    '/ 
end  to  the  good  he  should  derive  from  the  union—   ' 
not  from  a  generous  desire  to  make  another  happy  in    ? 
himself.     Anna  was  young,  vivacious,  and  more  than   : 
ordinarily  intelligent  and  pretty.     There  was  much   ) 
about    her  that  was  attractive,  and  Elliott  really 
imagined  that  he  loved  her ;  but  it  was  himself  that 
he  loved  in  her  fascinating  qualities.     These  were 


L 


ENGAGED    AT    SIXTEEN.  185     ; 

'  \ 

all  to  minister  to  his  pleasure.  He  never  cnce 
thought  of  devoting  himself  to  her  happiness. 

On  the  night  of  the  wedding,  which  took  place 
soon  after  Anna's  sixteenth  birthday,  the  bride  was 
in  that  bewildered  state  of  mind  which  destroys  all 
the  rational  perceptions  of  the  mind.  Her  whole 
soul  was  in  a  pleasing  tumult,  and  yet  she  did  not 
feel  happy ;  and  why  ?  Spite  of  the  solemn  promise 
she  had  made  to  love  and  honour  her  husband  above 
all  men,  she  felt  that  there  were  others  whom  she 
could  have  loved  and  honoured  more  than  him,  were 
they  in  his  place.  But  this,  reason  told  her,  was 
folly.  They  had  not  presented  themselves,  and  he 
had.  They  could  be  nothing  to  her — he  must  be 
every  thing.  To  secure  a  husband  early  was  the 
great  point,  and  that  had  been  gained.  This  thought, 
whenever  it  crossed  her  mind,  would  cause  her  to 
look  around  upon  her  maiden  companions  with  proud 
self-complacency.  They  were  still  upon  the  shores 
of  expectancy.  She  had  launched  her  boat  upon 
the  sunny  sea  of  matrimony,  and  was  already  mov- 
ing steadily  away  under  a  pleasant  breeze. 

Alas !  young  bride,  thy  hymeneal  altar  is  an 
altar  of  sacrifice.  Love  is  not  the  deity  who  is  pre- 
siding there.  Little  do  they  dream  who  have  led 
thee,  poor  lamb!  garlanded  with  flowers,  to  that 
altar,  how  innocent,  how  true,  how  good  a  heart  they 
were  offering  up  upon  its  strange  fires.  But  they 
will  know  in  time,  and  thou  wilt  know  when  it  is  too 
late. 

Two  years  from  the  period  of  their  marriage, 
Elliott  and  his  wife  were  seated  in  a  small  room 
moderately  well  furnished.  He  was  leaning  back  in 

16* 


186  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


a  chair,  with  arms  folded,  and  his  chin  resting  on  hig 
bosom.  His  face  was  contracted  into  a  gloomy 
scowl.  Anna,  who  looked  pale  and  troubled,  was 
sewing  and  touching  with  her  foot  a  cradle,  in  which 
was  a  babe.  The  little  one  seemed  restless.  Every 
now  and  then  it  would  start  and  moan,  or  cry  out. 
After  a  time  it  awoke  and  commenced  screaming. 
The  mother  lifted  it  from  the  cradle  and  tried  to  hush 
it  upon  her  bosom,  but  the  babe  still  cried  on.  It 
was  evidently  in  pain. 

"  Confound  you !  why  don't  you  keep  that  child 
quiet  ?"  exclaimed  the  husband,  impatiently  casting 
at  the  same  time  an  angry  look  upon  his  wife. 

Anna  made  no  reply,  but  turned  half  away  from 
him,  evidently  to  conceal  the  tears  that  suddenly 
started  from  her  eyes,  and  strove  more  earnestly  to 
quiet  the  child.  In  this  she  soon  succeeded. 

"  I  believe  you  let  her  cry  on  purpose,  whenever 
I  am  in  the  house,  just  to  annoy  me,"  her  husband 
resumed  in  an  ill-natured  tone. 

"No,  Thomas,  you  know  that  I  do  not,"  Anna 
said. 

"  Say  I  lie,  why  don't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  Thomas,  how  can  you  speak  so  to  me?" 
And  his  young  wife  turned  toward  him  an  earnest, 
tearful  look. 

"  Pah  !  don't  try  to  melt  me  with  your  crying.  I 
never  believed  in  it.  Women  can  cry  at  any  moment." 

There  was  a  convulsive  motion  of  Mrs.  Elliott's 
head  as  she  turned  quickly  away,  and  a  choking 
?  Bound  in  her  throat.  She  remained  silent,  ten  mi- 
;  nutes  passed,  when  her  husband  said  in  a  firm  voice, 

"  Anna,  I'm  going  to  break  up." 


ENGAGED   AT   SIXTEEN.  187 


Mrs.  Elliott  glanced  around  with  a  startled  air. 

"It's  true,  just  what  I  say — your  father  may 
think  that  I'm  going  to  make  a  slave  of  myself  to 
support  you,  but  he's  mistaken.  He's  refused  to 
help  me  in  my  business  one  single  copper,  though 
he's  able  enough.  And  now  I've  taken  my  resolu- 
tion. You  can  go  back  to  him  as  quick  as  you  like." 

Before  the  brutal  husband  had  half  finished  the 
sentence,  his  wife  was  on  her  feet,  with  a  cheek 
deadly  pale,  and  eyes  almost  starting  from  her  head. 
Thomas  Elliott  was  her  husband  and  the  father  of 
her  babe,  and  as  such  she  had  loved  him  with  a  far 
deeper  love  than  he  had  deserved.  This  had  caused 
her  to  bear  with  coldness  and  neglect,  and  even 
positive  unkindness  without  a  complaint.  Sacredly 
had  she  kept  from  her  mother  even  a  hint  of  the 
truth.  Thus  had  she  gone  on  almost  from  the  first ; 
for  only  a  few  months  elapsed  before  she  discovered 
that  her  image  was  dim  on  her  husband's  heart. 

"  You  needn't  stand  there  staring  at  me  like  one 
moon-struck" — he  said,  with  bitter  sarcasm  and  a 
curl  of  the  lip.  "  What  I  say  is  the  truth.  I'm 
going  to  give  up,  and  you've  got  to  go  home  to  them 
that  are  more  able  to  support  you  than  I  am ;  and 
who  have  a  better  right,  too,  I'm  thinking." 

There  was  something  so  heartless  and  chilling  in 
the  words  and  manner  of  her  husband,  that  Mrs. 
Elliott  made  no  attempt  to  reply.  Covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  she  sunk  back  into  the  chair  from 
which  she  had  risen,  more  deeply  miserable  than 
she  had  ever  been  in  her  life.  From  this  state  she 
W«*  aroused  by  the  imperative  question, 

"  Anna,  what  do  you  intend  doing  ?" 


188  THE   HOME    MISSION. 


"That  is  for  you  to  say" — was  her  murmured 
reply. 

"  Then,  I  say,  go  home  to  your  father,  and  at 
once." 

Without  a  word  the  wife  rose  from  her  chair,  with 
her  infant  in  her  arms,  and  pausing  only  long  enough 
to  put  on  her  shawl  and  bonnet,  left  the  house. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wyman  were  sitting  alone  late  on 
the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  thinking  about  and 
conversing  of  their  child.  Neither  of  them  felt  too 
well  satisfied  with  the  result  of  her  marriage.  It 
required  not  even  the  close  observation  of  a  parent's 
eye,  to  discover  that  she  was  far  from  happy. 

"I  wish  she  were  only  single" — Mr.  Wyman  at 
length  said.  "  She  married  much  too  young — -only 
eighteen  now,  and  with  a  cold-hearted  and,  I-  fear, 
unprincipled  and  neglectful  husband.  It  is  sad  to 
think  of  it." 

"  But  I  was  married  as  young  as  she  was,  Mr.    J! 
Wyman?" 

"Yes;  but  I  flatter  myself  you  made  a  better   ;> 
choice.     Your  condition  at  eighteen  was  very  differ-    <; 
ent  from  what  hers  is  now.      As  I  said  before,  I    ; 
only  wish  she  were  single,  and  then  I  wouldn't  care 
to  see  her  married  for  two  or  three  years  to  come." 

"  I  can't  help  wishing  she  had  refused  Mr.  Elliott. 
If  she  had  done  so,  she  might  have  been  married  to    ij 
a  much  better  man  long  before  this.    Mr.  Carpenter    s 
is  worth  a  dozen  of  him.     Oh  dear  !  this  marriage    > 
is  all  a  lottery,  after  all.     Few  prizes  and  many 
blanks.     Poor  Anna!  she  is  not  happy." 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  child 
of  whom  they  were  speaking,  with  her  infant  in  her 


ENGAGED   AT    SIXTEEN.  189 


arms,  came  hurriedly  in.  Her  face  was  deadly  pale, 
her  lips  tightly  compressed?  and  her  eyes  widely  dis- 
tended and  fixed. 

"Anna!"  exclaimed  the  mother,  starting  up 
quickly  and  springing  toward  her. 

"  My  child,  what  ails  you  ?"  was  eagerly  asked  hy 
the  father,  as  he,  too,  rose  up  hastily. 

But  there  was  no  reply.  The  heart  of  the  child 
was  too  full.  She  could  not  utter  the  truth.  She 
had  been  sent  hack  to  her  parents  hy  her  husband, 
but  her  tongue  could  not  declare  that !  Pride,  shame, 
wounded  affections,  combined  to  hold  back  her  words, 
Her  only  reply  was  to  lay  her  babe  in  her  mother's 
arms,  and  then  fling  herself  upon  the  bosom  of  her 
father. 

All  was  mystery  then,  but  time  soon  unveiled  the 
cause  of  their  daughter's  strange  and  sudden  appear- 
ance, and  her  deep  anguish.  The  truth  gradually 
came  out  that  she  had  been  deserted  by  her  husband ; 
or,  what  seemed  to  Mrs.  Wyman  more  disgraceful 
still,  had  been  sent  home  by  him.  Bitterly  did  she 
execrate  him,  but  it  availed  nothing.  Her  ardent 
wish  had  been  gratified.  Anna  was  engaged  at  six- 
teen, and  married  soon  after ;  but  at  eighteen,  alas  1 
ghe  had  come  home  a  deserted  wife  and  mother ! 
And  so  she  remained.  Her  husband  never  after- 
ward came  near  her.  And  now,  at  thirty,  with  a 
daughter  well  grown,  she  remains  in  her  father's 
house,  a  quiet,  thoughtful,  dreamy  woman,  who 
sees  little  in  life  that  is  attractive,  and  who  rarely  ; 
stirs  beyond  the  threshold  of  the  house  that  shelters  i 
her.  There  are  those  who  will  recognise  this  p\cture  > 

So  much  for  being  engaged  at  sixteen ! 


THE   DAUGHTER. 


IT  often  happens  that  a  daughter  possesses  greatly 
superior  advantages  to  those  enjoyed,  in  early  years, 
by  either  her  father  or  mother.  She  is  not  com- 
pelled  to  labour  as  hard  as  they  were  obliged  to  la- 
bour  when  young  ;  and  she  is  blessed  with  the  means 
of  education  far  beyond  what  they  had.  Her  asso- 
ciations, too,  are  of  a  different  order,  all  tending  to 
elevate  her  views  of  life,  to  refine  her  tastes,  and  to 
give  her  admission  into  a  higher  grade  of  society  than  j! 
they  were  fitted  to  move  in. 

Unless  very  watchful  of  herself  and  very  thought-    \ 
ful  of  her  parents,  a  daughter  so  situated  will  be  led 
at  times  to  draw  comparisons  between  her  own  culti- 
vated intellect  and  taste  and  the  want  of  such  culti- 
vation in  her  parents,  and  to  think  indifferently  of 
them,  as  really  inferior,  because  not  so  well  educated    \ 
and  accomplished    as    she  is.     A  distrust  of  their    ^ 
judgment  and  a  disrespect  of  their  opinions  will  fol- 
low, as  a  natural  consequence,  if  these  thoughts  and 
feelings  be  indulged.     This  result  often  takes  place 
with    thoughtless,  weak-minded   girls ;    and    is  fol- 
1  )wed  by  what  is  worse,  a  disregard  to  their  feelings, 
wishes,  and  express  commands. 

A  sensible  daughter,  who  loves  her  parents,  will 

\     hardly  forget  to  whom  she  is  indebted  for  all  the  su- 
perior advantages  she  enjoys.     She  will  also  readily 

£     perceive  that  the  experience  which  her  parents  have 

190 


THE   DAUGHTER.  191 


acquired,  and  their  natural  strength  of  nJnd,  give 
them  a  real  and  great  superiority  over  her,  and  make 
their  judgment,  in  all  matters  of  life,  far  more  to  be 
depended  upon  than  hers  could  possibly  be.  It  may 
be  that  her  mother  has  never  learned  to  play  upon 
the  piano,  has  never  been  to  a  dancing-school,  haa 
never  had  any  thing  beyond  the  merest  rudiments  of 
an  education  ;  but  she  has  good  sense,  prudence,  in- 
dustry, economy ;  understands  and  practises  all  the 
virtues  of  domestic  life ;  has  a  clear,  discriminating 
judgment ;  has  been  her  husband's  faithi  al  friend 
and  adviser  for  some  twenty  or  thirty  years ;  and  has 
safely  guarded  and  guided  her  children  up  co  mature 
years.  These  evidences  of  a  mother's  t  cle  to  her 
respect  and  fullest  confidence  cannot  long  be  absent 
from  a  daughter's  mind,  and  will  prevent  her  acting 
in  direct  opposition  to  her  judgment. 

Thoughtless  indeed  must  be  that  child  who  can 
permit  an  emotion  of  disrespect  toward  her  parents 
to  dwell  in  her  bosom  for  more  than  a  single  mo- 
ment! 

Respect  and  love  toward  parents  are  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  proper  formation  of  the  character 
upon  that  true  basis  which  will  bring  into  just  order 
and  subordination  all  the  powers  of  the  mind.  With- 
out this  order  and  subordination  there  can  be  no  true 
happiness.  A  child  loves  and  respects  his  parents, 
because  from  them  he  derived  his  being,  and  from 
them  receives  every  blessing  and  comfort.  To  them, 
and  to  them  alone,  does  his  mind  turn  as  the  authors 
of  all  the  good  gifts  he  possessed.  As  a  mere  child, 
it  is  right  for  him  thus  to  regard  his  parents  as  the 
authors  of  his  being  and  the  originators  of  all  Jus 

-.-i 


192  IHE   HOME   MISSION. 


blessings.     But  as  reason  gains  strength,  and  he  see?    ^ 
more  deeply  into  the  nature  and  causes  of  things, 
which  only  takes  place  as  the  child  approaches  the    ;; 
years  of  maturity,  it  is  then  seen  that  the  parents    \ 
were  only  the  agents  through  which  life,  and  all  the    5 
blessings  accompanying  it,  came  from  God,  the  great 
Father  of  all.     If  the  parents  have  been  loved  with 
a  truly  filial  love,  then  the  mind  has  been  suitably 
opened  and  prepared  for  love  toward  God,  and  an 
obedience  to  his  divine  laws,  without  which  there  can 
be  no  true  happiness.     When  this  new  and  higher 
truth  takes  possession  of  the  child's  mind,  it  in  no 
way  diminishes  his  respect  for  his  earthly  parents, 
but  increases  it.     He  no  longer  obeys  them  because 
they  command  obedience,  but  he  regards  the  truth 
of  their  precepts,  and  in  that  truth  hears  the  voice 
;    of  God  speaking  to  him.     More  than  ever  is  he  now 
j    careful  to  listen  to  their  wise  counsels,  because  he 
;    perceives  in  them  the  authority  of  reason,  which  is 
the  authority  of  God. 

Most  young  ladies,  on  attaining  the  age  of  respon-    jj 
Bibility,  will  perceive  a  difference  in  the  manner  of    ^ 
;    their  parents.     Instead  of  opposing  them,  as  hereto-    ? 
I-    fore,  with  authority,  they  will  oppose  them  with  rea-    ; 
;    son,   where  opposition  is  deemed  necessary.      The    ] 
'    mother,  instead  of  sayiag,  when  she  disapproves  any    ; 
thing,  "  No,  my  child,  you  cannot  do  it ;"  or,  "  No, 
you  must  not  go,  dear ;"  will  say,  "  I  would  rather 
not  have  you  do  so ;"  or,  "I  do  not  approve  of  your 
going."    If  you  ask  her  reasons,  she  will  state  them, 
and  endeavour  to  make  you  comprehend  their  force. 
It  is  far  too  often  the  case,  that  the  daughter's  de- 
sire to  do  what  her  mother  disapproves  is  so  active, 


THE   DAUGHTER.  193 


that  neither  her  mother's  objections  nor  reasons  are 
strong  enough  to  counteract  her  wishes,  and  she  fol- 
lows her  own  inclinations  instead  of  being  guided  by 
]  her  mother's  better  judgment.  In  these  instances, 
|  she  almost  always  does  wrong,  and  suffers  therefore 
f  either  bodily  or  mental  pain. 

Obedience  in  childhood  is  that  by  which  we  are  led 
and  guided  into  right  actions.  When  we  become 
men  and  women,  reason  takes  the  place  of  obedience ; 
but,  like  a  young  bird  just  fluttering  from  its  nest, 
>  reason  at  first  has  not  much  strength  of  wing ;  and 
<;  we  should  therefore  suffer  the  reason  of  those  who 
\  love  us,  like  the  mother-bird,  to  stoop  under  and 
bear  us  up  in  our  earlier  efforts,  lest  we  fall  bruised 
and  wounded  to  the  ground.  To  whose  reason  should 
a  young  girl  look  to  strengthen  her  own,  so  soon  as 
to  her  mother's,  guided  as  it  is  by  love  ?  But  it  too 
often  happens  that,  under  the  first  impulses  of  con- 
scious  freedom,  no  voice  is  regarded  but  the  voice  of  i 
inclination  and  passion.  The  mother  may  oppose,  ! 
and  warn,  and  urge  the  most  serious  considerations,  < 
but  the  daughter  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  all.  She  thinks  < 
that  she  knows  best. 

"  You  are  not  going  to-night,  Mary  ?"  said  a  mother,  ', 
coming  into  her  daughter's  room,  and  finding  her  j 
dressing  for  a  ball.  She  had  been  rather  seriously 
indisposed  for  some  days,  with  a  cold  that  had  fallen 
upon  her  throat  and  chest,  which  was  weak,  but  was 
now  something  better. 

"  I  think  I  will,  mother,  for  I  am  much  better  than 
I  was  yesterday,  and  have  improved  since  morning. 
I  have  promised  myself  so  much  pleasure  at  this  ball, 
that  I  oar.not  think  of  being  disappointed." 
17 


THE   HOME   MISSION. 


The  mother  shook  her  head. 

"Mary,"  she  replied,  "you  are  not  well  enough  to 
go  out.  The  air  is  damp,  and  you  will  inevitably 
take  more  cold.  Think  how  badly  your  throat  has 
been  inflamed." 

"  I  don't  think  it  has  been  so  very  bad,  mother." 

"  The  doctor  told  me  it  was  badly  inflamed,  and 
said  you  would  have  to  be  very  careful  of  yourself, 
or  it  might  prove  serious." 

"That  was  some  days  ago.  It  is  a  great  deal 
better  now." 

"But  the  least  exposure  may  cause  it  to  return." 

"  I  will  be  very  careful  not  to  expose  myself.  I 
will  wrap  up  warm  and  go  in  a  carriage.  I  am  sure 
there  is  not  the  least  danger,  mother." 

"  While  I  am  sure  that  there  is  very  great  danger.    \ 

ou  cannot  pass  from  the  door  to  the  carriage  with-  \ 
out  the  damp  air  striking  upon  your  face,  and  press-  j 
ing  into  your  lungs." 

"  But  I  must  not  always  exclude  myself  from  the  \ 
air,  mother.  Air  and  exercise,  you  know,  the  doc-  \ 
tor  says,  are  indispensable  to  health." 

"  Dry,  not  damp  air.     This  makes  the  difference. 
But  you  must  act  for  yourself,  Mary.     You  are  now 
a  woman,  and  must  freely  act  in  the  light  of  that 
reason  which  God  has  given  you.     Because  I  love    !; 
you,  and  desire  your  welfare,  I  thus  seek  to  convince    ; 
you  that  it  is  wrong  to  expose  your  health  to-night. 
Your  great  desire  to  go  blinds  you  to  the  real  dan- 
ger, which  I  can  fully  see." 

"  You  are  over-anxious,  mother,"  urged  Mary.  "  I 
know  how  I  feel  much  better  than  you  possibly 
and  I  know  I  am  well  enough  to  go." 


THE   DAUGHTER.  195 


L 


"I  have  nothing  more  to  say, my  child, "returned 
the  mother.  "  I  wish  you  to  act  freely,  but  wisely. 
Wisely  I  am  sure  you  will  not  act  if  you  go  to-night. 
A  temporary  illness  may  not  alone  be  the  conse- 
quence ;  your  health  may  receive  a  shock  from  which 
it  will  never  recover." 

"Mother  wishes  to  frighten  me,"  said  Mary  to 
herself,  after  her  mother  had  left  the  room.  "  But 
I  am  not  to  be  so  easily  frightened.  I  am  sorry  she 
makes  such  a  serious  matter  about  my  going,  for  I 
never  like  to  do  any  thing  that  is  not  agreeable  to 
her  feelings.  But  I  must  go  to  this  ball.  William 
is  to  call  for  me  at  eight,  and  he  would  be  as  much 
disappointed  as  myself  if  I  were  not  to  go.  As  to 
making  more  cold,  what  of  that  ?  I  would  willingly 
pay  the  penalty  of  a  pretty  severe  cold  rather  than 
miss  the  ball." 

Against  all  her  mother's  earnestly  urged  objections, 
Mary  went  with  her  lover  to  the  ball.  She  came 
home,  at  one  o'clock,  with  a  sharp  pain  through  her 
breast,  red  spots  on  her  cheeks,  oppression  of  the 
chest,  and  considerable  fever.  On  the  next  morning 
she  was  unable  to  rise  from  her  bed.  When  the  doc- 
tor, who  was  sent  for,  came  in,  he  looked  grave,  and 
asked  if  there  had  been  any  exposure  by  which  a 
fresh  cold  could  be  taken. 

"  She  was  at  the  ball  last  night,"  replied  the  mo- 
ther. 

"  Not  with  your  approval,  madam  ?"  he  said  quickly, 
looking  with  a  stern  expression  into  the  mother's  face. 

"  No,  doctor.  I  urged  her  not  to  go ;  but  Mary 
thought  she  knew  best.  She  did  not  believe  there 
was  any  danger." 


r 

196  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


A  strong  expression  rose  to  the  doctor's  lips,  but 
he  repressed  it,  lest  he  should  needlessly  alarm  the 
patient.  On  retiring  from  her  chamber,  he  declared 
the  case  to  be  a  very  critical  one ;  and  so  it  proved 
to  be.  Mary  did  not  leave  her  room  for  some  months ; 
and  when  she  did,  it  was  with  a  constitution  so  im- 
paired that  she  could  not  endure  the  slightest  fatigue, 
nor  bear  the  least  exposure.  Neither  change  of  cli- 
mate nor  medicine  availed  any  thing  toward  restor- 
ing her  to  health.  In  this  feeble  state  she  married, 
about  twelve  months  afterward,  the  young  man  who 
had  accompanied  her  to  the  ball.  One  year  from  the 
period  at  which  that  happy  event  took  place,  she 
died,  leaving  to  stranger  hands  a  babe  that  needed 
all  her  tenderest  care,  and  a  husband  almost  broken- 
hearted at  his  loss. 

This  is  not  merely  a  picture  from  the  imagination, 
and  highly  coloured.  It  is  from  nature,  and  every 
line  is  drawn  with  the  pencil  of  truth.  Hundreds  of 
young  women  yearly  sink  into  the  grave,  whose 
friends  can  trace  to  some  similar  act  of  imprudence, 
committed  in  direct  opposition  to  the  earnest  persua- 
sions of  parents  or  friends,  the  cause  of  their  prema- 
ture decay  and  death.  And  too  often  other,  and 
sometimes  even  worse,  consequences  than  death,  fol- 
low a  disregard  of  the  mother's  voice  Df  warning. 


PASSING  AWAY. 


[From  our  sioiy  of  "  The  Two  Brides,"  we  take  a  scene,  in 
which  some  one  sorrowing  as  those  without  hope  may  find 
words  of  consolation.] 

IN  the  very  springtime  of  young  womanhood,  the 
destroyer  had  come ;  and  though  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  her  gently  at  first,  yet  the  touch  was  none  the 
less  fatal.  But,  while  her  frail  body  wasted,  her 
spirit  remained  peaceful.  As  the  sun  of  her  natural 
life  sunk  low  in  the  sky,  the  bright  auroral  precursor 
of  another  day  smiled  along  the  eastern  verge  of  her 
spiritual  horizon.  There  was  in  her  heart  neither 
doubt,  nor  fear,  nor  shrinking. 

"Dear  Marion  !"  said  Anna,  dropping  a  tear  upon 
her  white  transparent  hand,  as  she  pressed  it  to  her 
lips,  a  few  weeks  after  the  alarming  hemorrhage  just 
mentioned;  "how  can  you  look  at  this  event  so 
calmly?" 

They  had  been  speaking  of  death,  and  Marion  had 
alluded  to  its  approach  to  Anna,  with  a  strange 
cheerfulness,  as  if  she  felt  it  to  be  nothing  more  than 
a  journey  to  another  and  far  pleasanter  land  than 

t,    that  wherein  she  now  dwelt. 

"  Why  should  I  look  upon  this  change  with  other 

!;    than  tranquil  feelings  ?"  she  asked. 

>        "  Why  ?     How  can  you  ask  such  a  question,  sis- 

•;    ter?'    returned  Anna.     "To   mf»,  there   has   been 


198  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


always  something  in  the  thought  of  death  that  made 
the  blood  run  cold  about  my  heart." 

"This,"  replied  Marion,  with  one  of  her  sweet 
smiles,  "is  because  your  ideas  of  death  have  been, 
from  the  first,  confused  and  erroneous.  You  thought 
of  the  cold  and  pulseless  body  ;  the  pale  winding- 
sheet  ;  the  narrow  coffin,  and  the  deep,  dark  grave.    } 
But,  I  do  not  let  my  thoughts  rest  on  these.     To    \ 
me,  death  involves  the  idea  of  eternal  life.     I  cannot   J 
think  of  the  one  without  the  other.     Should   the   \ 
chrysalis  tremble  at  the  coming  change  ?  —  the  dull   ] 
worm  in  its  cerements  shrink  from  the  moment  when,    j 
ordained  by  nature,  it  must  rise  into  a  new  life,  and   \ 
expand  its  wings  in  the  sunny  air  ?     How  much  less 
cause  have  I  to  tremble  and  shrink  back  as  the  hour 
approaches  when  this  mortal  is  to  put  on  immor- 
tality ?" 

"  Yours  is  a  beautiful  faith,"  said  Anna.  "  And 
its  effects,  as  seen  now  that  the  hour  from  which  all 
shrink  approaches,  are  strongly  corroborative  of  its 
truth." 

"It  is  beautiful  because  it  is  true,"  replied  Marion. 
"  There  is  no  real  beauty  that  is  not  the  form  of 
something  good  and  true." 

"  If  I  were  as  good  as  you,  I  might  not  shrink 
from  death,"  remarked  Anna,  with  a  transient 
iigh. 

"I  hope   you  are  better  than  I  am,  dear;  and    ! 
think  you  are,"  said  Marion. 

"Oh,  no  !"  quickly  returned  Anna. 

"  Do  you  purpose  evil  in  your  heart  ?"  asked  M» 
rion,  seriously. 

Anna  seemed  half  surprised  at  the  question. 


PASSING    AWAY.  199 


"Evil!  Evil!  I  hope  not,"  she  replied,  aa  a 
shadow  came  over  her  face. 

"It  is  an  evil  purpose  only  that  should  make  us 
fear  death,  Anna ;  for  therein  lies  the  only  cause  of 
fear.  Death,  to  those  who  love  themselves  and  the 
world  above  every  thing  else,  is  a  sad  event ;  but  to 
those  who  love  God  and  their  neighbour  supremely, 
it  is  a  happy  change." 

"That  is  all  true,"  said  Anna.  "My  reason  as- 
sents to  it.  But,  in  the  act  of  dissolution — in  that 
mortal  strife,  when  the  soul  separates  itself  from  the 
body — there  is  something  from  which  my  heart 
shrinks  and  trembles  down  fainting  in  my  boson*. 
Ah !  In  the  crossing  of  that  bourne  from  which  no 
traveller  has  returned  to  tell  us  ef  what  is  beyond, 
\  there  is  something  that  more  than  half  appals  me." 
i  "  There  is  much  that  takes  away  the  fear  you  hav<s 
:'  mentioned,"  replied  Marion.  "It  is  the  uncertain 
£  that  causes  us  to  tremble  and  shrink  back.  But, 
(  when  we  know  what  is  before  us,  we  prepare  ourselves 
!  to  meet  it.  Attendant  upon  every  one  who  dies, 
1  Bays  a  certain  writer,  are  two  angels,  who  keep  his 
;•  mind  entirely  above  the  thought  of  death,  and  in  the 
£  idea  of  eternal  life.  They  remain  with  him  through 
j>  the  whole  process — protecting  him  from  evil  spirits — 
s  and  receive  him  into  the  world  of  spirits  after  his 
/  soul  has  fully  withdrawn  itself  from  the  interior  of 
;  the  body.  The  last  idea  active  in  the  mind  of  the 
|  person  before  death,  is  the  first  idea  in  his  mind  after 
{  death,  when  his  consciousness  of  life  is  restored  ;  and 
;  it  is  some  time  after  this  conscious  life  returns  be- 
'  fore  he  is  aware  that  he  is  dead.  Around  him  he 
•ees  objects  similar  to  those  seen  in  the  natural 


200  THE  HOME   MISSION. 


world.  There  are  honses  and  trees,  streams  of  wa- 
ter and  gardens.  Men  and  women  dressed  in  vari- 
ously fashioned  garments.  They  walk  and  converse 
together,  as  we  do  upon  earth.  When,  at  length, 
he  is  told  that  he  has  died,  and  is  now  in  a  world 
that  is  spiritual  instead  of  natural — that  the  body  in 
which  he  is,  is  a  hody  formed  of  spiritual  instead  of 
natural  substances,  he  is  in  a  measure  affected  with 
surprise,  and  for  the  most  part  a  pleasing  surprise. 
He  wonders  at  the  grossness  of  his  previous  ideas, 
which  limited  form  and  substances  to  material  things ; 
and  n~w,  unless  he  had  been  instructed  during  his 
lite  in  the  world,  begins  to  comprehend  the  truth 
that  man  is  a  man  from  the  spirit,  not  from  the  body." 

Anna,  who  had  been  listening  intently,  drew  a   < 
long  breath,  as  Marion  paused. 

"  Dead,  and  yet  not  know  the  fact !"  said  she, 
with  an  expression  of  wonder.  "  It  seems  incredible. 
And  all  this  you  fully  believe  ?" 

"  Yes,  Anna ;  as  entirely  as  I  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  the  sun  in  the  firmament." 

"If  these  doctrines  can  take  away  the  fear  of 
death,  which  so  haunts  the  mind  of  even  those  who 
are  striving  to  live  pure  h'ves,  they  are  indeed  a 
legacy  of  good  to  the  world.  Oh,  Marion,  how  much 
I  have  suffered,  ever  since  the  days  of  my  childhood, 
from  this  dreadful  fear!" 

"  They  do  take  away  the  fear  of  death,"  returned 
Marion ;  "  because  they  remove  the  uncertainty  which 
has  heretofore  gathered  like  a  gloomy  pall  over  the 
last  hours  of  mortality.  When  the  soul  of  lover  or 
friend  passed  from  this  world,  it  seemed  to  plunge 
into  a  dark  profound,  and  there  came  not  back  an  i 

•  . .  * 


1 

PASSING   AWAY.  201     ; 

echo  to  tell  of  his  fate.  '  The  bourne  from  which  no 
traveller  returns !'  Oh !  the  painful  eloquence  of  that 
single  line.  But,  now,  we  who  receive  the  doctrine 
of  which  I  speak,  can  look  beyond  this  bourne ;  and 
though  the  traveller  returns  not,  yet  we  know  some- 
thing of  how  he  fared  on  his  entrance  into  the  new 
country." 

"  Then  we  need  not  fear  for  you,"  said  Anna, 
\  tenderly,  "  when  you  are  called  to  pass  this  bourne  ?" 

"  No,  sister,"  replied  Marion,  "I  know  in  whom  I 
have  believed,  and  I  feel  sure  that  it  will  be  well 
j  with  me,  so  far  as  I  have  shunned  what  is  evil  and 
sought  to  do  good.  Do  not  think  of  me  as  sinking 
into  some  gloomy  profound;  or  awakening  from  my 
sleep  of  death,  startled,  amazed,  or  shocked  by  the 
sudden  transition.  Loving  angels  will  be  my  com- 
panions as  I  descend  into  the  valley  and  the  shadow 
of  death  ;  and  I  will  fear  no  evil.  Upon  the  other 
side  I  will  be  received  among  those  who  have  gone 
before,  and  I  will  scarcely  feel  that  there  has  been 
a  change.  A  little  while  I  will  remain  there,  and 
then  pass  upward  to  my  place  in  heaven." 

The  mother  of  Marion  entered  her  room  at  this 
moment,  and  the  conversation  was  suspended.  But 
it  was  renewed  again  soon  after,  and  the  gentle- 
hearted,  spiritual-minded  girl  continued  to  talk  of 
the  other  world  as  one  preparing  for  a  journey  talks 
about  the  new  country  into  which  he  is  about  going, 
and  of  whose  geography,  and  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  whose  people,  he  has  made  himself  convers- 
ant from  books. 

Not  long  did  she  remain  on  this  side  of  the  dark 
valley,  through  which  she  was  to  pass.  A  few  months 


;     202  THE   HOME   MISSION. 


wound  up  the  story  of  her  earthly  life,  and  she  went 
peacefully  and  confidently  on  her  way  to  her  eternal    ; 
dwelling-place.     It  was  a  sweet,  sad  time,  when  the 
parting  hour  came,  and   the  mother,  brother,  and 
dearly  loved  adopted  sister,  gathered  around  Mari- 
cn's  bed  to  see  her  die.     That  angels  were  present, 
each  one  felt  ;  for  the  sphere  of  tranquillity  that  per-    ;', 
vaded  the  hearts  of  all  was  the  sphere  of  heaven. 

"  God  is  love,"  said  Marion,  a  short  time  before    ; 
she  passed  away.     She  was  holding  the  hand  of  her 
mother,  and  looking  tenderly  in  her  face.     "  How 
exquisite  is  my  perception  of  this  truth?     It  comes 
upon  me  with  a  power  that  subdues  my  spirit,  yet    ) 
fills  it  with  ineffable  peace.     With  Mhat  a  wondrous    j 
love  has  he  regarded  us  !     I  never  had  had  so  in-    ; 
tense  a  perception  of  this  as  now." 

I        Marion  closed  her  eyes,  and  for  some  time  lay    ; 

i    silent,  while  a  heavenly  smile  irradiated  her  features.    ; 
Then  looking  up,  she  said,  and  as  she  spoke  she  took    ! 

j;    the  hand  of  Anna  and  placed  it  within  that  of  her 

;    mother  — 

"  When  I  am  gone,  let  the  earthly  love  you  bore 
me,  mother,  be  added  to  that  already  felt  for  our  dear 

r\    Anna.     Think  of  me  as  an  angel,  and  of  her  as  your 
child." 


In  spite  of  her  effort  to  restrain  them,  tears  gushed 

from  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Lee,  and  fell  like  rain  over  her 

cheeks.     For  a  short  time  she  bent  to  her  dying  one, 

!;    and  clasped  her  wildly  to  her  bosom.     But  the  calm- 

t    ness  of  a  deeply-laid  trust  in  Providence  was  soon 

j;    restored  to  h^r   spirit,  and   she   said,  speaking  of 

<    Anna  — 


PASSING   AWAY.  203 

*' Without  h3r,  how  could  we  part  with  you?     I 
i    do  not  think  I  could  bear  it." 

"I  shall  go  before  you  only  a  little  while,"  re- 
turned Marion,  "  only  a  very  little  while.  A  few 
years — how  quickly  they  will  hurry  by  !  A  few  more 
days  of  labour,  and  your  earthly  tasks  will  be  done. 
Then  we  shall  meet  again.  And  even  in  the  days 
of  our  separation  we  shall  not  be  far  removed  from 
each  other.  Thought  will  bring  us  spiritually  near, 
and  affection  conjoin  us,  even  though  no  sense  of  the 
body  give  token  of  proximity.  And  who  knows  but 
to  me  will  be  assigned  the  guardianship  of  the  dear 
<;  babe  given  to  us  by  Anna  ?  Oh  !  if  love  will  secure 
I  that  holy  duty,  then  it  will  be  mine !" 

A  light,  as  if  reflected  from  the  sun  of  heaven, 

>    beamed  from  the  countenance  of  Marion,  who  closed 

s    her  eyes,  and,  in  a  little  while,  fell  off  into  a  gentle 

/    sleep.     Silently  did  those  who  loved  her  with  more 

\    than  human  tenderness — for  there  was  in  their  affec  • 

j    tion  a  love  of  goodness  for  its  own  sake — bend  over 

•'    and  watch  the  face  of  the  sweet  sleeper,  even  until 

!;    there  came  stealing  upon   them  the  fear   that  she 

I    would  not  waken  again  in  this  world.     And  the  fear 

was  not  groundless ;  for  thus  she  passed  away.    To 

her  death  came  as  a  gentle  messenger,  to  bid  her  go 

;    up  higher.     And  she  obeyed  the  summons  without 

a  mortal  fear. 

No  passionate  grief  at  their  loss  raged  wildly  in 
the  bosoms  of  those  who  suffered  this  great  bereave- 
J  ment.  For  years,  the  mother  and  son  had  daily 
striven  against  selfish  feelings  as  evil ;  and  now, 
comprehending  with  the  utmost  clearness  that  Ma- 
rion's removal  was,  for  her,  a  blessed  change,  their 


204  THE   HOME   MISSKN. 


hearts  were  thankful,  even  while  tears  wet  their 
cheeks.  They  mourned  for  her  departure,  because 
they  were  human ;  they  suffered  pain,  for  ties  of  love 
the  most  tender  had  been  snapped  asunder;  they 
wept,  because  in  weeping  nature  found  relief.  Yet, 
in  all,  peace  brooded  over  their  spirits. 

When  the  fading,  wasting  form  of  earth  which 
Marion's  pure  spirit  had  worn,  as  a  garment,  but 
now  laid  aside  forever,  was  borne  out,  and  consigned 
to  its  kindred  clay,  those  who  remained  behind  ex- 
perienced no  new  emotions  of  grief.     To  them  Ma- 
rion still  lived.     This  was  Jhe  old  mortal  body,  that 
vailed,  rather  than  made  visible,  her  real  beauty. 
Now  she  was  clothed  in  a  spiritual  body,  that  was 
transcendently  beautiful,  because   it  was   the  very 
form  of  good  affections.    To  lay  the  useless  garment 
aside  was  not,  therefore,  a  painful  task.    This  done, 
each  member  of  the  bereaved  family  returned  to  his 
and  her  life-tasks,  and,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of    ^ 
daily  duties,  found  a  sustaining  power.     But  Marion    £ 
was  not  lost  to  them.     Ever  present  was  she  in  their    ^ 
thought  and  affection,  and  often,  in  dreams,  she  was    •; 
with  them, — yet,  never  as  the  suffering  mortal ;  but    ; 
as  the  happy,  glorified  immortal.     Beautiful  was  the    'f 
faith  upon  which  they  leaned.   To  them  the  spiritual    ^ 
was  not  a  something  vague  and  undeterminate ;  but 
a  real  entity.     They  looked  beyond  the  grave,  into 
the  spiritual  world,  as  into  a  better  country,  where 
life  was  continued  in  higher  perfection,  and  where 
were   spiritual    ultimates,  as    perfectly  adapted    to 
spiritual  sense  as  are  the  ultimates  of  creation  to 
the  senses  of  the  natural  body. 

j 


THE  LOVE  SECRET, 


"  EDWARD  is  to  be  in  London  next  week,"  said 
Mrs.  Ravensworth ;  "  and  I  trust,  Edith,  that  you 
will  meet  him  with  the  frankness  he  is  entitled  to 
receive." 

Edith  Hamilton,  who  stood  behind  the  chair  of 
her  aunt,  did  not  make  any  answer. 

Mrs.  Ravensworth  continued — "  Edward's  father 
was  your  father's  own  brother.  A  man  of  nobler 
spirit  never  moved  on  English  soil ;  and  I  hear  that 
Edward  is  the  worthy  son  of  a  worthy  sire." 

"  If  he  were  as  pure  and  perfect  as  an  angel,  aunt," 
replied  Edith,  "  it  would  be  all  the  same  to  me.  I 
have  never  seen  him,  and  cannot,  therefore,  meet 
him  as  one  who  has  a  right  to  claim  my  hand." 

"  Your  father  gave  you  away  when  you  were  a 
child,  Edith ;  and  Edward  comes  now  to  claim  you 
by  virtue  of  this  betrothal." 

"While  I  love  the  memory  of  my  father,  and 
honour  him  as  a  child  should  honour  a  parent,"  said 
Edith,  with  much  seriousness,  "  I  do  not  admit  his 
right  to  give  me  away  in  marriage  while  I  was  yet  a 
i  child.  And,  moreover,  I  do  not  think  the  man  who 
j|  would  seek  to  consummate  such  a  marriage  contract 
$  worthy  of  any  maiden's  lore.  Only  the  heart  that 
£  yields  a  free  consent  is  worth  having,  and  the  man 
who  would  take  any  other  is  utterly  unworthy  of 

18  205 


THE    HOME    MISSION. 


any  woman's  regard.     By  this  rule  I  judge  Edwar 
to  be  unworthy,  no  matter  what  his  father  may  have 
been." 

"  Then  you  mean,"  said  Mrs.  Ravensworth,  "  de- 
liberately to  violate  the  solemn  contract  made  by 
your  father  with  the  father  of  Edward  ?" 

"  I  cannot  receive  Edward  as  any  thing  but  a 
stranger,"  replied  Edith.  "  It  will  not  mend  the 
;  error  of  my  father  for  me  to  commit  a  still  greatei 
I  one." 

"  How  commit  a  still  greater  one  ?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Ravensworth. 

"  Destroy  the  very  foundation  of  a  true  marriage 
— freedom  of  choice  and  consent.  There  would  be 
n$  freedom  of  choice  on  his  part,  and  no  privilege 
of  consent  on  mine.  Happiness  could  not  follow 
such  a  union,  and  to  enter  into  it  would  be  doing  a 
great  wrong.  No,  aunt,  I  cannot  receive  Edward  in 
any  other  way  than  as  a  stranger — for  such  he  is." 

"  There  is  a  clause  in  your  father's  will  that  you 
may  have  forgotten,  Edith,"  said  her  aunt. 

"  That  which  makes  me  penniless  if  I  do  not 
marry  Edward  Hamden?" 

"Yes." 

"  No — I  have  not  forgotten  it,  aunt." 

"And  you  mean  to  brave  that  consequence?" 

"  In  a  choice  of  evils  we  always  take  the  least." 
Edith's  voice  trembled. 

Mrs.  Ravensworth  did  not  reply  for  some  mo-  ; 
ments.  While  she  sat  silent,  the  half-closed  door  J 
near  which  Edith  stood,  and  toward  which  her  aunt's  $ 
back  was  turned,  softly  opened,  v  id  a  handsome  < 
youth,  between  whom  and  Edith  glances  of  intelli-  j 


THE   LOVE   SECRET.  207 


gence  instantly  passed,  presented  the  startled  maiden 
with  a  beautiful  white  rose,  and  then  noiselessly  re- 
tired. 

It  was  nearly  a  minute  before  Mrs.  Ravensworth 
resumed  the  light  employment  in  which  she  was  en- 
;j    gaged,  and  as  she  did  so,  she  said — 

"  Many  a  foolish  young  girl  gets  her  head  turned 
$  with  those  gay  gallants  at  our  fashionable  watering- 
<  places,  and  imagines  that  she  has  won  a  heart  when 
I  the  object  of  her  vain  regard  never  felt  the  throb 
\  of  a  truly  unselfish  and  noble  impulse." 

The  crimson  deepened  on  Edith's  cheeks  and 
;  brow,  and  as  she  lifted  her  eyes,  she  saw  herself  in 
t  a  large  mirror  opposite,  with  her  aunt's  calm  eyes 
I  steadily  fixed  upon  her.  To  turn  her  face  partly 
away,  so  that  it  could  no  longer  be  reflected  from 
the  mirror,  was  the  work  of  an  instant.  In  a  few 
moments  she  said — 

"  Let  young  and  foolish  girls  get  their  heads 
turned  if  they  will.  But  I  trust  I  am  in  no  danger." 
"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.  Those  who  think 
themselves  most  secure  are  generally  in  the  greatest 
danger.  Who  is  the  youth  with  whom  you  danced 
last  evening  ?  I  don't  remember  to  have  seen  him 
here  before." 

"  His  name  is  Evelyn."  There  was  a  slight  tre- 
mor in  Edith's  voice. 

"  How  came  you  to  know  him  ?" 
"  I  met  him  here  last  season." 
"  You  did  ?" 

"  Yes,  ma'am.  And  I  danced  with  him  last  night. 
Was  there  any  harm  in  that?"  The  maiden's  voic« 
had  regained  its  firmness. 


THE   HOME    MISSION. 


"I  didn't  say  there  was,"  returned  Mrs.  Ravens- 
worth,  who  again  relapsed  into  silence.     Not  long 
after,  she  said — "  I  think  we  will  return  to  London    <! 
on  Thursday." 

"  So  soon  !"    Edith  spoke  in  a  disappointed  voice. 

"  Do  you  find  it  so  very  pleasant  here  ?"  said  the 
aunt,  a  little  ironically. 

"  I  have  not  complained  of  its  being  dull,  aunt,"  "i 
replied  Edith.  "But  if  you  wish  to  return  on  I 
Thursday,  I  will  he  ready  to  accompany  you." 

Soon  after  this,  Edith  Hamilton  left  her  aunt's 
room,  and  went  to  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  of  the 
hotel  at  which  they  were  staying,  where  she  sat 
down  near  a  recess  window  that  overlooked  a  beau-    i 
tiful  promenade.     She  had  been  here  only  a  fe\f    ? 
minutes,  when  she  was  joined  by  a  handsome  youth.    < 
to  whom  Edith  said — 

"  How  could  you  venture  to  the  door  of  my  aunt's  j 
parlour?  I'm  half  afraid  she  detected  your  pre-  i 
sence,  for  she  said,  immediately  afterward,  that  we  ; 
would  return  to  London  on  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

"  So  soon  ?  "Well,  I'll  be  there  next  week,  and  it 
will  be  strange  if,  with  your  consent,  we  don't  meet 
often." 

"  Edward  Hamden  is  expected  in  a  few  days," 
replied  Edith,  her  voice  slightly  faltering. 

Her  companion  looked  at  her  searchingly  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  said — 

"You  have  never  met  him?" 

"Never." 

"  But  when  you  do  meet  him,  the  repugnance  you 
now  feel  may  instantly  vanish." 

A  shadow  passed   over   Edith's   face,  and   she 


TI1E   LOVE   SECRET.  209 


answered  in  a  voice  that  showed  t.^e  remark — the 
tone  of  which  conveyed  more  than  the  words  them- 
selves— to  have  been  felt  as  a  question  of  her  con- 
stancy. 

"  Can  one  whose  heart  is  all  unknown  to  me,  one 
who  must  think  of  me  with  a  feeling  of  dislike  be- 
cause of  bonds  and  pledges,  prove  a  nearer  or  a 
dearer  friend  than " 

Edith  did  not  finish  the  sentence.  But  that  was 
not  needed.  The  glance  of  rebuking  tenderness  cast 
upon  her  companion  expressed  all  that  her  lipa  had 
failed  to  utter. 

"But  you  do  not  know  me,  Edith,"  said  the 
young  man. 

"  My  heart  says  differently,"  was  Edith's  lowly 
spoken  reply. 

Evelyn  pressed  the  maiden's  hand,  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  an  earnest,  loving  expression. 

Mrs.  Ravensworth,  to  whose  care  Edith  had  been 
consigned  on  the  death  of  her  father,  had  never 
been  pleased  with  the  unwise  contract  made  by  the 
parents  of  her  niece  and  Edward  Hamden.      The 
latter  had  been  for  ten  years  in  Paris  and  Italy, 
travelling  and  pursuing  his  studies.     These  being 
completed,  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  a  deceased 
parent,  he  was  about  returning  to  London  to  meet 
his  future  wife.     No  correspondence  had  taken  place    '', 
between  the  parties  to  this  unnatural  contract ;  and 
from  the  time  of  Edward's  letter,  when  he  announced     J 
to  Mrs.  Ravensworth  his  proposed  visit,  it  was  plain     \ 
that  his  feelings  were  as  little  interested  in  his  future     < 
partner  as  were  hers  in  him. 

During  the  twc  or  three  days  that  Mrs.  Ravens-     \ 

18* 


210  THE   HOME   MISSION. 

A 

worth  and  her  niece  remained  at  the  watering-place, 
Edith  and  young  Evelyn  met  frequently ;  but,  as  far 
as  possible,  at  times  when  they  supposed  the  particu- 
lar attention  of  the  aunt  would  not  be  drawn  toward  J; 
them  in  such  a  manner  as  to  penetrate  their  love  \ 
secret.  When,  at  length,  they  parted,  it  was  with  5 
an  understanding  that  they  were  to  meet  in  London.  > 

On  returning  to  the  city,  the  thoughts  of  Edith  ; 

reverted  more  directly  to  the  fact  of  Edward  Ham-  \ 

den's  approaching  visit ;  and,  in  spite  of  all  her  s 

efforts  to  remain  undisturbed  in  her  feelings,  the  j 

near  approach  of  this  event  agitated  her.      Mrs.  < 

Ravensworth  frequently  alluded  to  the  subject,  and  J 
earnestly  pressed  upon  Edith  the  consideration  of 

her  duty  to  her  parent,  as  well  as  the  consequences  i 

that  must  follow  her  disregard  of  the  contract  which  ij 

had  been  made.     But  the  more  she  talked  on  this  jj 

j    subject,  the  more  firm  was  Edith  in  expressing  her  ;• 

determination  not  to  do  violence  to  her  feelings  in  a  s 
matter  so  vital  to  her  happiness. 

The  day  at  length  came  upon  which  Edward  Ham-  '. 

den  was  to  arrive.    Edith  appeared,  in  the  morning,  ; 

with  a  disturbed  air.     It  was  plain  to  the  closely  ; 

observing  eyes  of  her  aunt,  that  she  had  not  passed  ; 
a  night  of  refreshing  sleep. 

"  I  trust,  my  dear  niece,"  she  said,  after  they  had 
retired  from  the  breakfast  table,  where  but  little 
food  had  been  taken,  "that  you  will  not  exhibit 
toward  Edward,  on  meeting  him,  any  of  the  precon- 
ceived and  unjust  antipathy  you  entertain.  Let  ] 
your  feelings,  at  least,  remain  uncommitted  for  or  ; 
against  him. 

"Aunt  Helen,  it  is  useless  to  talk  to  me  in  this  ; 


THE   LOVE   SECttET.  211 

way,"  Edith  replied,  with  more  than  her  usual 
warmth.  "  The  simple  fact  of  an  obligation  to  love 
puts  a  gulf  between  us.  My  heart  turns  from  him  as 
from  an  enemy.  I  will  meet  him  with  politeness ;  but 
it  must  be  cold  and  formal.  To  ask  of  me  more,  is  to 
ask  what  I  cannot  give.  I  only  wish  that  he  possessed 
the  manliness  I  would  have  had  if  similarly  situated. 
Were  this  so,  I  would  now  be  free  by  his  act,  not 
my  own." 

%  Seeing  that  all  she  urged  but  made  the  feelings 
£  of  Edith  oppose  themselves  more  strongly  to  the 
•j  young  man,  Mrs.  Ravensworth  ceased  to  speak  upon 
;>  the  subject,  and  the  former  was  left  to  brood  with  a 
<!  deeply  disturbed  heart  over  the  approaching  inter- 
'•  view  with  one  who  had  come  to  claim  a  hand  that 
;  she  resolutely  determined  not  to  yield. 

About  twelve  o'clock,  Mrs.  Ravensworth  came  to 
;  Edith's  room  and  announced  the  arrival  of  Edward 
j;  Hamden.  The  maiden's  face  became  pale,  and  her 
s1  lips  quivered. 

"If  I  could  but  be  spared  an  interview,"  she 
<  murmured.  "But  that  is  more  than  I  can  ask." 

"  How  weak  you  are,  Edith,"  replied  her  aunt,  in 
\  a  tone  of  reproof. 

"  I  will  join  you  in  the  drawing-room  in  half  an 
hour,"  said  Edith,  speaking  more  calmly. 

Mrs.  Ravensworth  retired,  and  left  Edith  again  to 
her  own  thoughts.  She  sat  for  nearly  the  whole  of 
the  time  she  had  mentioned.  Then  rising  hurriedly, 
she  made  a  few  changes  in  her  attire ;  after  which 
she  descended  to  the  drawing-room  with  a  step  that 
Was  far  from  being  firm. 

So  noiselessly  did  she  enter  the  apartment  where 


THE   HOME   MISSION. 


;  Hamden  awaited  her,  that  neither  her  aunt  nor  the 
young  man  perceived  her  presence  for  some  moments, 
and  she  had  time  to  examine  his  appearance,  and  to 
read  the  lineaments  of  his  half-averted  face.  While 
she  stood  thus  observing  him,  her  countenance  sud- 
denly flushed,  and  she  bent  forward  with  a  look  of 
surprise  and  eagerness.  At  this  moment  the  young 
man  became  aware  that  she  had  entered,  and  rising 
up  quickly,  advanced  to  meet  her. 

"Evelyn!"  exclaimed  Edith,  striking  her  hands 
together,  the  moment  he  turned  toward  her. 

"Edith!  my  own  Edith!"  returned  the  young 
man,  as  he  grasped  her  hand,  and  ventured  a  warm 
kiss  on  her  beautiful  lips.  "  Not  Evelyn,  but  Ham- 
den.  Our  parents  betrothed  us  while  we  were  yet 
too  young  to  give  or  withhold  consent.  Both,  as  we 
grew  older,  felt  this  pledge  as  a  heart-sickening  con- 
straint. But  we  met  as  strangers,  and  I  saw  that 
you  were  all  my  soul  could  desire.  I  sought  your 
regard  and  won  it.  No  obligation  but  love  now 
binds  us." 

The  young  man  then  turned  to  Mrs.  Ravensworth, 
and  said — 

"You  see,  madam,  that  we  are  not  strangers." 

Instead  of  looking  surprised,  Mrs.  Ravensworth 
Bmiled  calmly,  and  answered — 

"  No — it  would  be  singular  if  you  were.  Love- 
tokens  don't  generally  pass,  nor  familiar  meetings 
take  place  between  strangers." 

"Love-tokens,  Aunt  Helen?"  fell  from  the  lips 
of  Edith,  as  she  turned  partly  away  from  Hamden, 
and  looked  inquiringly  at  her  relative. 

"Yes,  dear,"  returned  Mrs.  Ravensworth.  "  White 


THE   LOVE   SECRET.  213 


roses,  for  instance.  You  saw  your  own  blushing  face 
in  the  mirror,  did  you  not  ?" 

"  The  mirror !  Then  you  saw  Edward  present  the 
rose?" 

"  And  did  you  know  me  ?"  inquired  the  young 
man. 

"  One  who  knew  your  father  as  well  as  I  did 
could  not  fail  to  know  the  son.  I  penetrated  your 
love  secret  as  soon  as  it  was  known  to  yourselves." 

"Aunt  Helen  !"  exclaimed  Edith,  hiding  her  face 
on  the  neck  of  her  kind  relative,  "  how  have  I  been 
deceived !" 

"  Happily,  I  trust,  love,"  returned  Mrs.  Ravens- 
worth,  tenderly. 

"Most  happily!  My  heart  swells  with  gladness 
almost  to  bursting,"  came  murmuring  from  the  lips 
of  the  j  yyful  maiden. 


THE  END. 


FED  BT  L.  JOHNSON  *  00> 
PHILADELPHIA. 


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Baiting  for  an  Alligator  —  Morning  among  the  Rocky  Mountains  —  En 
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The  tragical  events  of  the  war  will  not  only  be  read  with  thrilling  IB 
terettt,  bat  the  history  of  India  will  be  studied  by  all  classes.  The  wor 
tefnre  as  is  well  calculated  to  impart  the  knowledge  of  India  and  the  B« 
billion,  which  is  sought  by  those  whose  curiosity  has  been  excited,  M  i 
j'  tes,  in  one  volume,  a  popular  history  of  the  country  at  different  epoch* 
—  Rural  Xeio  YorJter. 


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Bntiah  Provinces. 

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« To    the    Pure    all    tilings    are    Pure." 


WOMAN  AND  HER  DISEASES 

FROM 

THE  CRADLE  TO  THE  GRAVE: 

Adapted  exclusively  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of 
her  System,  and  all  the  Diseases  of  her  Critical  Periods. 

BY  EDWARD  H.  DIXON,  M.D., 

Bdilor  of  "  The  Scalpel,"  Consulting  and  Operating  Surgeon,  author  of  a  Treatise  at 
S  the  "  Causes  of  the  Early  Decay  of  American  Women,"  ic.,  Ac.,  and  formerly 

Physician  to  the  New  York  Deaf  and  Dumb  Ajyluin. 

Sent  by  Mail  on  receipt  of  the  price,  -     -     -     -     -     $1.00 

»••••• 

NOTICES    OF    THE    PBESS. 

"WOMAX  Axr>  HER  DISEASES,  from  the  Cradle  to  the  Grave,  adapted  ex- 
elnsively  to  her  Instruction  in  the  Physiology  of  her  System,"  etc.  By 
Edward  H.  Dizon,  M.D.  This  work,  though  pertaining  to  subject,  the 
discussion  of  which  has  hitherto  been  almost  exclusively  confined  to  the 
medical  profession,  contains  not  a  line  nor  a  word  calculated  to  awaken 
Impure  emotion,  but  much  to  strengthen  purposes  of  virtue,  and  at  the 
same  time  to  remove  the  ignorance  which  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  pre- 
vailing licentiousness.  It  has  received  the  highest  commendation  from 
men  whose  opinions  have  great  weight  with  the  friends  of  morality  and 
religion. — New  York  Tribune. 

The  chapter  on  the  consequences  and  treatment  of  self-abuse,  is  one  of 
the  most  earnest  appeals  we  have  ever  read,  and  we  believe  will  save 
thousands  from  an  untimely  grave.  That,  on  abortion,  entitles  Dr.  Dizon 
to  the  thanks  of  every  humane  person  in  the  community. — Merchants' 
Ledger,  N.  Y. 

The  thanks  of  the  public  are  due  to  Dr.  Dixon,  both  for  the  matter  and 
the  manner  of  it.  Every  mother  should  read  it,  and  then  present  its  con- 
tents to  her  chttilrQii.T-Anfflo-American. 

Dr  Dixon  has  lent  a  deep  interest  to  his  work,  and  is  doing  good  service 
by  its  publication. — Boston  Medical  and  Surgical  Journal. 

W«  are  sure  we  are  doing  a  public  benefit,  by  commending  to  universal 
notice  this  work,  imparting  as  it  does  a  vast  deal  of  information  of  vital 
Importance  to  every  one.  Medical  and  other  journals  of  the  highest  re- 
pute iu  this  country,  have  spoken  of  it  in  the  most  exalted  terms,  and 
SRinPstly  recommend  its  introduction  into  every  family. — A'eie  Bed/orA 
Evening  Bulletin. 


tg^"  Agents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the    United  Stat'.t  ana 
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A    BOOK    OF    STARTLING    INTEREST. 


THE 

IN6BI  AND  TIB  DEMON 

BY   T.    S.    ARTHUR. 
A.  handsome  12mo.  volume, Price  $1.0C 


In  this  exciting  story  Mr.  Arthur  has  taken  hold  of  the  reader1! 
attention  with  a  more  than  usually  vigorous  grasp,  and  keeps  him 
absorbed  to  the  end  of  the  volume.  The  book  is  one  of  START- 
LING INTEREST.  Its  lessons  should  be 

IN  THE  HEART  OF  EVERY  MOTHER. 

Onward,  with  a  power  of  demonstration  that  makes  conviction  a 
necessity,  the  author  sweeps  through  his  subject,  fascinating  at 
every  step.  In  the  union  of 

THRILLING  DBAMATIC  INCIDENT, 

with  moral  lessons  of  the  highest  importance,  this  volume  stands 
forth  pre-eminent  among  the  author's  many  fine  productions. 


NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS. 

A  story  of  much  power,  imbued  with  that  excellent  moral  and  religion* 
ipirit  which  pervades  all  hia  writings. — N.  Y.  Chronicle. 

This  volume  is  among  his  best  productions,  and  worthy  of  a  place  or 
•very  centre-table. — Clarion,  Pa.,  Banner. 

Th'i?  is  a  most  fascinating  book,  one  which  the  reader  will  find  it  qnH 
hard  to  lay  aside  without  reading  to  the  last  page.—  Albany,  ff.  f.,  /our 
\ml  and  Courier. 


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J.   W.   BBADLEY'S    LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 

LIFE    AND    EXPLOKATIONS 

or 

DR.  E.   K.  KANE, 

AND   OTHER    DISTINGUISHED 

AMERICAN   EXPLORERS, 


LEDYARD,  WILKES,  PERRY,  etc.,  etc. 

WNTAININQ   KARRATITKS  OF   THEIE   RESEARCHES  AND  ADVEN- 
fT  RES  IN  REMOTE  AND  INTERESTING  PORTIONS  OF  THE  GLOBK. 

BY  SAMUEL  M.  SMUCKER,  A,M. 

Author  of  "  Court  tn4  Reign  of  0»th«in«  II.,"  "  Kmperor  Nicholu  I.,"   "  Lif«  el 

Alexuider  Hamilton,"    "  Arctic  Exploration*  and  Diacoreric*,"    "  Memoir  »f 

Tuomu  Jeffenon,"    "  Memorabl*  Socaet  in  French  Hutor/,"  eta 

With  a  fine  Mezzotint  Portrait  of  Dr.  Kane,  in  his  Arctic  Costume, 


This  work  brings  within  the  reach  of  all  the  admirers  of  our  great 
Explorers  (of  whom  Dr.  KANE,  although  last,  is  not  least,)  the  most 
important  matter  contained  in  books  costing  ten  times  the  amount. 

ABKNTS  and  CANVASSERS  by  taking  this  book,  with  our  new  work 
of  Da.  LIVINGSTONE'S  EXPLORATIONS  IN  AFRICA,  can  make  mow 
money  in  the  same  time  than  on  any  other  books  now  published. 
Retail  price,  $1.00.  Specimen  copies  sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  th« 
price. 

NOTICES   OF    THE   PRESS. 

From  the  many  favorable  notices  of  "  Smucker's  Life  of  Dr.  Kane 
»nd  other  American  Explorers,"  we  take  the  following  : 

The  author  has  here  given  ns  a  valuable  addition  to  American  Biographi- 
cal literature.  —  Oodey's  Lady's  Book. 

A  terse,  useful  and  interesting  work.  It  is  a  delightful  volume.  —  U.S  -Jmur 

It  will  become  a  household  volume.  —  Chicago  Tribune. 

The  portrait  of  Dr.  Kane  contained  in  this  volume  is  a  splendid  ste-el  s» 
graving,  and  may  be  relied  upon  as  a  correct  likeness,  as  we  onrselv* 
UTS  frequently  seen  the  original,  and  find  the  resemblance  most  striking 
—Am.  Prer.  Prtxx,  Boston,  Pa. 

Worthy  of  a  place  on  any  centre-table,  or  on  the  shelves  of  any  library 
—  TVifi/on  Gtaettt. 

For  family  libraries,  this  book  is  Just  the  thing.—  Arfhur't 


J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.   Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J 


J.   W.    BRADLEY'S    LIST    OF    PUBLICATIONS. 


Collation  of  Sfictrjjes. 


BY  MISS  V.  F.  TOWNSEND. 

Large  12mo.,  with  fine  steel   Portrait  of    the   Author. 
Bound  in  cloth,  $1.00. 


OOISTTEOSTTS. 


Muriel. 

To  Arthur,  Asleep. 

The  Memory  Bells. 

Mend  the  Breeches. 

The  Sunshine  after  the  Bain. 

My  Picture. 

Little  Mercy  Is  Dead. 

The  Old  Letters. 

The  Fountain  very  Far  Down. 

The  Raiu  iu  the  Afternoon. 

The  Blossom  iu  tte  Wilderness 

The  Mistake. 

October. 

Twice  Loving. 

The  Old  Mirror. 


The  Couutry  Graveyard. 

Now. 

The  Door  in  the  Heart. 

My  Step-Mother. 

The  Broken  Threat. 

Glimpses  Inside  the  Cars. 

The  Old  Stove. 

The  Old  Rug. 

The  "  Making- Up." 

Next  to  Me. 

"Only  a  Dollar." 

The  Temptation  and  the  Triumph 

Extracts  from  a  Valedictory  Poem 

December. 


NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS. 

We  might  say  many  things  in  favor  of  this  delightful  publication,  but 
we  deem  it  unnecessary.  Husbands  should  buy  it  for  their  wiveg,  lov«n 
should  buy  it  for  their  sweethearts,  friends  should  buy  it  for  their  friend* 
— 4  prettier  or  more  entertaining  gift  could  not  be  given — and  everybody 
ihonld  buy  it  for  themselves.  It  onght  to  be  circulated  throughout  lh« 
land.  It  carries  sunshine  wherever  it  goes.  One  such  book  is  worth 
•ore  than  all  the  "yellow-covered  trash"  ever  published. — 
Lady' i  Book. 


Agents  wanted  in   every  part  of  the    United  States  an* 
Brituh  Provinces.     Ad-iress, 


J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  AT.   Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


J.   W.   BRADLEY'S   LIST   OF   PUBLICATIONS. 

AR  T  H  U  R'S 

SKETCHES  OF  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER 

An  octavo  volume  of  over  400  pages,  beautifully  illni 
trated,  and  bound  in  the  best  English  muslin,  gill 
back,  $2.00.  

NOTICES    OF    THE    PRESS. 

The  present  volume,  containing  more  than  four  hundred  finely-printed 
octavo  pages,  is  illustrated  by  splendid  engravings,  and  made  particularly 
valuable  to  those  who  like  to  "see  the  face  of  him  they  talk  withal,"  by 
a  correct  likeness  of  the  author,  finely  engraved  on  steel. — Neal's  Gazette. 

In  the  princely  mansions  of  the  Atlantic  merchants,  and  in  the  rude  log 
cabins  of  the  backwoodsmen,  the  name  of  Arthur  is  equally  known  and 
cherished  as  the  friend  of  virtue. — Graham's  Magazine. 

We  would  not  exchange  the  copy  of  these  sketches,  with  its  story  of 
"The  Methodist  Preacher,"  for  any  one  of  the  gilt-edged  and  embossed 
Annuals  which  we  have  yet  seen. — Lady's  National  Magazine. 

The  first  story  in  the  volume,  entitled  "  The  Methodist  Preacher ;  or, 
Lights  and  Shadows  in  the  Life  of  an  Itinerant,"  is  alone  worth  the  price     jj 
of  the  work. — Evening  Bulletin.  > 

It  is  emphatically  a  splendid  work. — Middletown  Whig. 

Its  worth  and  cheapness  should  place  it  in  every  persona  hands  who  de-     j 
sire  to  read  an  interesting  book. — Odd  Fellow,  Boomsboro'. 

"The  Methodist  Preacher,"  "Seed-Time  and  Harvest,"  "Dyed  in  the 
Wool,"  are  full  of  truth  as  well  as  instruction,  and  anyone  of  them  in 
win-th  the  whole  price  of  the  volume. — Lowell  Day-Star,  Rev.  D  C.  Eddy, 
Editor. 

There  is  a  fascination  about  these  sketches  which  so  powerfully  interests 
the  reader,  that  few  who  commence  one  of  them  will  part  with  it  till  it  it 
concluded  ;  and  they  will  bear  reading  repeatedly. — Norfolk  and  Ports- 
mouth. Herald. 

Those  who  have  not  pernsed  these  model  stories  have  a  rich  feast  ir 
W'-iting,  and  we  shall  be  happy  if  we  can  be  instrumental  in  pointing 
them  to  it. — Family  Visitor,  Madison,  Geo. 

No  library  for  family  reading  should  be  considered  complete  without 
this  volume,  which  is  as  lively  and  entertaining  in  its  character  as  it  It 
nlutary  in  its  influence. — 2f.  ¥.  Tribune. 

The  work  is  beautifully  illustrated.     Tl  >se  who  are  at  'all   acquainted 

1th  Arthur's  writings  need  hardly  be  told  that  the  present  work  is  a  priM 
M  whoever  possesses  it. — N.  Y.  Sun. 

We  kar«w  no  better  book  for  the  table  of  any  family,  whether  regarded 
for  its  neat  sxterior  or  valuable  contents. —  Vox  Populi,  Lowell. 

The  name  of  the  author  is  in  itself  a  sufficient  recommendation  of  th« 
Work. — Lawrence  Sentinel. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.  Fourth  street,  Philadelphia. 


J.    W.    BEADLEY'S    LIST    OF   PUBLICATIONS. 


1 


THE 


Jfielh  of  tjje 


COMPRISING 

Descriptions  of  the   different   Battles,   Sieges,   and 

other  events  of  the  War  of  Independence,  inter- 

spersed with  Characteristic  Anecdotes. 

Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings,  and  a  fine  Mezzo- 
tint Frontispiece.  By  THOMAS  Y.  EUOADS.  Large 
12mo.,  336  pages.  Price  $1.00. 


The  Sergeant  and  the  Indians. 

Burning  of  the  Gaspee. 

The  Great  Tea  Kiot. 

The  First  Prayer  in  Congress 

Battle  of  Lexington. 

Fight  at  Concord  Bridge. 

Capture  of  Ticonderoga. 

Battle  of  Bunker's  Hill. 

Attack  on  Quebec. 

Attack  on  Sullivan's  Island. 

The  Declaration  of  Independence. 

Firmness  of  Washington. 

Capture  of  General  Lee. 

Cuptuie  of  General  Prescott. 

General  Prescott  Whipped. 

Battle  of  Trenton. 

Batt'o  of  Princeton. 

General  La  Fayette. 

Battle  of  Braudywine. 

Battle  of  Germantown. 

Battle  of  Red  Bauk 


Bnrgoyne's    Invasion  —  Battle    of 

Bennington. 

Heroic  Exploit  of  Peter  Francisco. 
Andrew  Jackson. 
Siege  of   Yorktown — Surrender  of 

Cornwallis. 
George  Rogers  Clarke. 
Death  of  Captain  Biddle. 
Patriotism  of  Mother  Bailey. 
The  Dutchman  aud  the  Kake. 
Simon  Keuton. 
The  Murder  of  Miss  McCrea. 
M:tss.acre  at  Wyoming. 
Treason  of  Arnold. 
Patriotism  of  Elizabeth  Zaoe 
Stony  Point. 
John  Paul  Jones. 
Battle  of  King's  Mountain. 
Burning  of  Colonel  Crawford 
Battle  of  the  Cow  pens. 
Baron  StenVii 
Mrs.  Bozartk. 


fg"  Agents  wanted  in  every  part  of  the 
British  /Voi  inces.      Addrets, 


Statei 


J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.   Fou~ik  street,  Philadelphia 


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___  _      j 

THE    MASTER-SPIRIT    OF    THE    AGE 


-       - 

THE  PUBLIC  AND  PRIVATE  HISTOEY 


NAPOLEON   THE    THIRD 


Biographical    Notices    of   his    most    Digtlii 
Ministers,  Generals,  a/i«   Favorites. 

BY  SAMUEL  M,  SMITKEK,  A.M. 

»nthor  of  '•  Court  and  Reign  of  0»thcm.<  U.,"  "  Nicholu  I.,  Emperor  of  R 
"  Life  of  Alexwider  ttvuiiltoa,"  etc.,  elc. 


This  Interesting  and  valuablr  work  is  embellished  with  splendid  Ste«l 
Rates,  done  by  Mr.  Sartain  U  bis  beet  style,  including 

The  Emperor,  The   F.mpress,  Queen  Hortense,  and   the 
Countess  Castiglione. 

The  work  contains  avvr  400  pages  of  closely-printed  matter,  and  h*i 
oeen  prepared  with  icu«h  care  from  authentic  sources,  and  furnishes  • 
Urge  amount  of  information  in  reference  to  the  Emperor  of  the  French 

HIS    COURT,    AND    FRANCE    UNDER   THE 
SECOND    EMPIRE, 

which  is  entirely  new  to  American  readers.     This  work   is  the  only  one 
either  in  EnglUt  or  French,  which  boldly  and  accurately  describes 

The  Eeal  Character,  The  Private  Morals,  The  Public  Policy 
of  Napoleon  the  Third. 

NOTICES    OF    THE   PRESS. 

This  Is  •  r  -ry  valuable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  present  time 
In  extr»o  Ainary  amount  of  information  is  criven  in  the  present  volume 
Like  al)  the  other  works  of  the  graceful  and  fluent  author,  it  must  com 
•and  a  very  large  popnlarity. — Philad'a  Mercury. 

It  is  the  most  complete  biography  of  the  French  Emperor  yet  pnb!i«h«d, 
IB  J  brings  event*  down  to  the  present  time. — Baltimore  ReptMiean. 

Thi*  book  is  well  written,  printed  on  good  paper,  is  ueatly  bound,  good 
tfl«,  *nd  sold  cheap. —  Vnlley  Spirit,  Chambfrsbwrg. 

Trln  work  does  full  and  ample  justice  to  the  subject.  It  is  a  pr<>dnetioa 
W  superior  ability.  Mr.  Snuu-ker  is  an  accomplished  writer.  He  is  learnm 
ind  acetrate  in  hi«  researches,  and  his  style  is  polished  and  scholarlike,  ft 
til  U  be  (Toduces  works  'jf  sterling  value  and  ]N?rmanent  iuteiest. — Phil.  Di* 

^^"  Copies  sent  by  mail  011  receipt  of  the  price,  $1.26. 

J.  W.  BRADLEY,  Publisher, 

48  N.   Fourth  street,  Philadelphia 


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405  Hilgard  Avenue,  Los  Angeles,  CA  90024-1388 

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from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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